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PUCK OF POOR’S HILL 



Puck of Pook’s Hill 


By Rudyard Kipling 



PUBLISHED BY 

DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY 

FOR 

REVIEW OF, REVIEWS CO. 
1914 










Copyright, 1905, 1006, by 
RUDYARD KIPLING 



A // rights reserved, 

fncludmg that 0/ translation into foreign languages, 
titcluding the Scandinavian 


ROBIN GOODFELLOW—HIS FRIENDS 
By Rudyard Kipling 

I. A Centurion of the Thirtieth. 

II. On the Great Wall. 

III. The Winged Hats. 

IV. Hal o’ the Draft. 

V. Dymchurch Flit. 

VI. The Treasure and the Law. 

Copyright, 1906, by Rudyard Kipling. 





CONTENTS 


PAoa 


Puck's Song . 

Weland's Sword 

A Tree Song .... 

^Young Men at the Manor 
^ Sir Richard's Song 

Harp Song of the Dane Women 
^The Knights of the Joyous Venture 
Thorkild's Song 
,/Old Men at Pevensey . 

The Runes on Weland's Sword . 

A Centurion of the Thirtieth 
A British-Roman Song 
On the Great Wall 
A Song to Mithras . 

The Winged Hats 
A Piet Song .... 
Hal o* the Draft .... 
A Smugglers' Song . 

The Bee Boy's Song 
'Dymchurch Flit' 

A Three-Part Song 

Song of the Fifth River 

The Treasure and the Law . 

The Children's Song . 


I 

5 

29 

33 

55 

59 

61 

87 

91 

119 

125 

145 

149 

173 

177 

201 

207 

227 

231 

233 

251 

255 

257 

276 









PUCK OF POOK’S HILL 



PUCK’S SONG 


See you the dimpled track that runs. 

All hollow through the wheat? 

O that was where they hauled the guns 
That smote King Philip's -fleet. 

See you our little mill that clacks, 

So busy by the brook? 

She has ground her corn and paid her tax 
Ever since Domesday Book, 

See you our stilly woods of oak, 

And the dread ditch beside? 

O that was where the Saxons broke, 

On the day that Harold died. 

See you the windy levels spread 
About the gates of Rye? 

O that was where the Northmen fled. 
When Alfred's ships came by. 

See you our pastures wide and lone. 
Where the red oxen browse? 

O there was a City thronged and known. 
Ere London boasted a house. 

And see you, after rain, the trace 
Of mound and ditch and wall? 

O that was a Legion's camping-place, 

. When CcBsar sailed from Gaul. 


2 


PUCK OF POOR’S HILL 


And see you marks that show and fade. 
Like shadows on the Downs? 

O they are the lines the Flint Men made. 
To guard their wondrous towns. 

Trackway and Camp and City lost, 
Salt Marsh where now is corn; 

Old Wars, old Peace, old Arts that cease. 
And so was England horn! 

She is not any common Earth, 

Water or wood or air. 

But Merlin's Isle of Gramarye, 

Where you and I will fare. 


WELAND’S SWORD 



WELAND’S SWORD^ 


T he children were at the Theatre, act¬ 
ing to Three Cows as much as they 
could remember of Midsummer 
Night's Dream. Their father had 
made them a small play out of the big Shake¬ 
speare one, and they had rehearsed it with 
him and with their mother till they could 
say it by heart. They began where Nick Bot¬ 
tom the weaver comes out of the bushes with 
a donkey’s head on his shoulder, and finds 
Titania, Queen of the Fairies, asleep. Then 
they skipped to the part where Bottom asks 
three little fairies to scratch his head and bring 
him honey, and they ended where he falls 
asleep in Titania’s arms. Dan was Puck and 
Nick Bottom, as well as all three Fairies. He 
wore a pointy-eared cloth cap for Puck, and a 
paper donkey’s head out of a Christmas cracker 
—but it tore if you were not careful—^for 
Bottom. Una was Titania, with a wreath 
of columbines and a foxglove wand. 

The Theatre lay in a meadow called the 
Long Slip. A little mill-stream, carrying water 
to a mill two or three fields away, bent round 
one comer of it, and in the middle of the bend 
lay a large old fairy Ring of darkened grass, 
which was their stage. The mill-stream banks, 
overgrown with willow, hazel, and guelder rose 
made convenient places to wait in till your 


^Copyright, 1905, by Rudyard Kiplmg. 



6 


PUCK OF POOR’S HILL 


turn came; and a grown-up who had seen it said 
that Shakespeare himself could not have 
imagined a more suitable setting for his play. 
They were not, of course, allowed to act on 
Midsummer Night itself, but they went down 
after tea on Midsummer Eve, when the shad¬ 
ows were growing, and they took their supper 
—^hard-boiled eggs, Bath Oliver biscuits, and 
salt in an envelope—with them. Three Cows 
had been milked and were grazing steadily 
with a tearing noise that one could hear all 
down the meadow; and the noise of the mill 
at work sounded like bare feet running on 
hard ground. A cuckoo sat on a gatepost 
singing his broken June tune, ‘cuckoo-cuk, ’ 
while a busy kingfisher crossed from the mill- 
stream to the brook which ran on the other 
side of the meadow. Everything else was a 
sort of thick, sleepy stillness smelling of 
mieadow-sweet and dry grass. 

Their play went beautifully. Dan remem¬ 
bered all his parts—Puck, Bottom, and the 
three Fairies—^and Una never forgot a word 
of Titania—^not even the difficult piece where 
she tells the Fairies how to feed Bottom with 
‘apricocks, ripe figs, and dewbenfies,’ and all 
the lines end in ‘ies.’ They were both so 
pleased that they acted it three times over 
from beginning to end before they sat down 
in the unthistly centre of the Ring to eat eggs 
and Bath Olivers. This was when they heard 
a whistle among the alders on the bank, and 
they jumped. 

The bushes parted. In the very spot where 
Dan had stood as Puck they saw a small, 


WELAND’S SWORD 


7 


brown, broad-shouldered, pointy-eared person 
with a snub nose, slanting blue eyes, and a 
grin that ran right across his freckled face. 
He shaded his forehead as though he were 
watching Quince, Snout, Bottom, and the 
others rehearsing Pyramis and Thishe, and, 
in a voice as deep as Three Cows asking to 
be milked, he began: 

‘ What hempen homespuns have we swaggering here. 
So near the cradle of our fairy Queen ?' 

He stopped, hollowed one hand round his 
ear, and, with a wicked twinkle in his eye, 
went on: 

‘ What a play toward? I’ll be auditor, 

An actor too, perhaps, if I see cause.* 

The children looked and gasped. The 
small thing—he was no taller than Dan’s 
shoulder—stepped quietly into the Ring. 

‘I’m rather out of practice,’ said he; ‘but 
that’s the way my part ought to be played.’ 

Still the children stared at him—^from his 
dark blue cap, like a big columbine flower, to 
his bare, hairy feet. At last he laughed. 

‘ Please don’t look like that. It isn’t my 
fault. What else could you expect?’ he said. 

‘We didn’t expect any one,’ Dan answered, 
slowly. ‘This is our field.’ 

‘Is it?’ said their visitor, sitting down. 
‘Then what on Human Earth made you act 
Midsummer Night's Dream three times over, 
on Midsummer Eve, in the middle of a Ring, 
and under—aright under one of my oldest hills 
in Old England? Pook’s Hill—Puck’s Hill—- 


8 


PUCK OF POOK’S HILL 


Puck’s Hill—Pook’s Hill! It’s as plain as 
the nose on my face.’ 

He pointed to the bare, fern-covered slope of 
Pook’s Hill that runs up from the far side of 
the mill-stream to a dark wood. Beyond 
that wood the ground rises and rises for five 
hundred feet, till at last you climb out on the 
bare top of Beacon Hill, to look over the Pe- 
vensey Levels and the Channel and half the 
naked South Downs. 

‘B}^ Oak, Ash, and Thorn!’ he cried, still 
laughing. ‘ If this had happened a few hun¬ 
dred years ago you’d have had all the People 
of the Hills out like bees in June! ’ 

‘We didn’t know it was wrong,’ said Dan. 

‘Wrong!’ The little fellow shook with 
laughter. ‘ Indeed, it isn’t wrong. You’ve 
done something that Kings and Knights and 
vScholars in old days would have given their 
crowns and spurs and books to find out. If 
Merlin himself had helped you, you couldn’t 
have managed better! You’ve broken the 
Hills—you’ve broken the Hills! It hasn’t 
happened in a thousand years.’ 

‘ We—we didn’t mean to,’ said Una. 

‘ Of course you didn’t! That’s just why you 
did it. Unluckily the Hills are empty now, 
and all the People of the Plills are gone. I’m 
the only one left. I’m Puck, the oldest Old 
Thing in England, very much at your service 
if—if you care to have anything to do with 
me. If you don’t, of course you’ve only to 
say so, and I’ll go.’ 

He looked at the children and the children 
looked at him for quite half a minute. His 




WELAND’S SWORD 


9 


eyes did not twinkle any more. They were 
very kind, and there was the beginning of a 
good smile on his lips. 

Una put out her hand. 'Don’t go,’ she 
said. ‘ We like you. ’ 

'Have a Bath Oliver,’ said Dan, and he 
passed over the squashy envelope with the eggs. 

'By Oak, Ash, and Thom!’ cried Puck, 
taking off his blue cap, ' I like you too. Sprin¬ 
kle a little salt on the biscuit, Dan, and I’ll 
eat it with you. That’ll show you the sort of 
person I am. Some of us ’—^he went on, with 
his mouth full—couldn’t abide Salt, or Horse¬ 
shoes over a door, or Mountain-ash berries, or 
Running Water, or Cold Iron, or the sound of 
Church Bells. But I’m Puck!’ 

He brushed the crumbs carefully from his 
doublet and shook hands. 

'We always said, Dan and I,’ Una stam¬ 
mered, ‘that if it ever happened we’d know 
ex-actly what to do; but-^ut now it seems 
all different somehow.’ 

'She means meeting a fairy,’ said Dan. I 
never believed in ’em—not after I was six, 
anyhow.’ 

'I did,’ said Una. ‘At least, I sort of half 
believed till we learned “Farewell Rewards.” 
Do you know “ Farewell Rewards and Fairies” ?’ 

‘Do you mean this?’ said Puck. He threw 
his big head back and began at the second 
line:— 

‘ Good housewives now may say, 

For now foul sluts in dairies 
Do fare as well as they; 

For though they sweep their hearths no less 


PUCK OF POOK’S HILL 


CJoin in, Una! ’) 

Than maids were wont to do, 

Yet who of late for cleanliness 
Finds sixpence in her shoe ? * 

The echoes flapped all along the flat meadow. 

‘ Of course I know it,’ he said. 

‘ And then there’s the verse about the 
Rings,’ said Dan. ‘ When I was little it always 
made me feel unhappy in my inside.’ 

‘“Witness those rings and roundelays,” 
do you mean?’ boomed Puck, with a voice 
like a great church organ. 

‘ Of theirs which yet remain, 

Were footed in Queen Mary’s days 
On many a grassy plain. 

But since of late Elizabeth, 

And later James came in, 

Are never seen on any heath 
As when the time hath been. 

Tt’s some time since I heard that sung, but 
there’s no good beating about the bush: it’s 
true. The People of the Hills have all left. 
I saw them come into Old England and I saw 
them go. Giants, trolls, kelpies, brownies, 
goblins, imps; wood, tree, mound, and water 
spirits; heath-people, hill-watchers, treasure- 
guards, good people, little people, pishogues, 
leprechauns, night-riders, pixies, nixies, gnomes 
and the rest—gone, all gone! I came 
into England with Oak, Ash, and Thom, and 
when Oak, Ash, and Thom are gone I shall 
go too.’ 

Dan looked round the meadow—^at Una’s 
-oak by the lower gate, at the line of ash trees 





WELAND’S SWORD 


II 


that overhang Otter Pool where the mill- 
stream spills over when the mill does not need 
it, and at the gnarled old white-thom where 
Three Cows scratched their necks. 

‘It’s all right,’ he said; and added, ‘I’m 
planting a lot of acorns this autumn too. ’ 

‘Then aren’t you most awfully old?’ said 
Una. 

‘ Not old—fairly long-lived, as folk say here¬ 
abouts. Let me see—my friends used to set 
my dish of cream for me o’ nights when Stone¬ 
henge was new. Yes, before the Flint Men 
made the Dewpond under Chanctonbury 
Ring.’ 

Una clasped her hands, cried ‘Oh!’ and 
nodded her head. 

‘She’s thought a plan,’ Dan explained. 
‘ She always does like that when she thinks a 
plan.’ 

‘I was thinking—suppose we saved some of 
our porridge and put it in the attic for you. 
They’d notice if we left it in the nursery.’ 

‘Schoolroom,’ said Dan, quickly, and Una 
flushed, because they had made a solemn 
treaty that summer not to call the schoolroom 
the nursery any more. 

‘Bless your heart o’ gold!’ said Puck. 
‘You’ll make a fine considering wench some 
market-day. I really don’t want you to put 
out a bowl for me; but if ever I need a bite, 
be sure I’ll tell you.’ 

He stretched himself at length on the dry 
grass, and the children stretched out beside 
him, their bare legs waving happily in the air. 
They felt they could not be afraid of him any 



12 


PUCK OF POOR’S HILL 


more than of their particular friend old Hob- 
den, the hedger. He did not bother them 
with grown-up questions, or laugh at the 
donkey’s head, but lay and smiled to himself 
in the most sensible way. 

‘ Have you a knife on you? ’ he said at last. 

Dan handed over his big one-bladed outdoor 
knife, and Puck began to carve out a piece of 
turf from the centre of the Ring. 

‘What’s that for—Magic?’ said Una, as he 
pressed up the square of chocolate loam that 
cut like so much cheese. 

‘One of my little Magics,’ he answered, and 
cut another. ‘You see, I can’t let you into 
the Hills because the People of the Hills have 
gone; but if you care to take seizin from me, 
I may be able to show you something out of 
the common here on Human Earth. You 
certainly deserve it.’ 

‘ What’s taking seizin? ’ said Dan, cautiously. 

‘ It’s an old custom the people had when they 
bought and sold land. They used to cut out 
a clod and hand it over to the buyer, and you 
weren’t lawfully seized of your land—it didn’t 
really belong to you—^till the other fellow had 
actually given you a piece of it—like this.’ 
He held out the turves. 

‘ But it’s our own meadow,’ said Dan, draw¬ 
ing back. ‘Are you going to magic it away? ’ 

Puck laughed. ‘ I know it’s your meadow, 
but there’s a great deal more in it than you or 
your father ever guessed. Try! ’ 

He turned his eyes on Una. 

‘I’ll do it,’ she said. Dan followed her 
example at once. 



WELAND’S SWORD 


13 


‘ Now are you two lawfully seized and pos¬ 
sessed of all Old England,’ began Puck, in a 
sing-song voice. ‘By Right of Oak, Ash, and 
Thorn are you free to come and go and look 
and know where I shall show or best you please. 
You shall see What you shall see and you shall 
hear What you shall hear, though It shall have 
happened three thousand year; and you shall 
know neither Doubt nor Fear. Fast! Hold 
fast all I give you.’ 

The children shut their eyes, but nothing 
happened. 

‘Well?’ said Una, disappointedly opening 
them. ‘ I thought there would be dragons.’ 

‘ Though It shall have happened three 
thousand year,’ said Puck, and counted on his 
fingers. ‘No; I’m afraid there were no drag- 
gons three thousand years ago.’ 

‘ But there hasn’t happened anything at all,’ 
said Dan. 

‘ Wait awhile,’ said Puck. ‘ You don’t grow 
an oak in a year—^and Old England’s older 
than twenty oaks. Let’s sit down again and 
think. I can do that for a century at a time.’ 

‘ Ah, but you are a fairy, ’ said Dan. 

‘ Have you ever heard me use that word yet ?’ 
said Puck, quickly. 

‘No. You talk about “the People of the 
Hills,” but you never say “fairies,” ’ said Una. 
‘I was wondering at that. Don’t you like 
it?’ 

‘How would you like to be called “mortal” 
or “human being” all the time?’ said Puck; 

‘ or “ son of Adam ” or “ daughter of Eve ” ? ’ 

‘ I shouldn’t like it at all, ’ said Dan. ‘ That’s 


14 PUCK OF POOR’S HILL 

how the Djinns and Afrits talk in the Arabian 
Nights.' 

‘And that’s how I feel about saying—^that 
word that I don’t say. Besides, what you call 
them are made-up things the People of 
the Hills have never heard of—^little buzzfiies 
with butterfly wings and gauze petticoats, 
and shiny stars in their hair, and a wand like 
a schoolteacher’s cane for punishing bad boys 
and rewarding good ones. I know ’em!’ 

‘ We don’t mean that sort, ’ said Dan. ‘ We 
hate ’em too.’ 

‘Exactly,’ said Puck. ‘Can you wonder 
that the People of the Hills don’t care to be 
confused with that painty-winged, wand- 
waving, sugar-and-shake-your-head set of im¬ 
postors? Butterfly wings, indeed! I’ve seen 
Sir Huon and a troop of his people setting off 
from Tintagel Castle for Hy-Brasil in the 
teeth of a sou’-westerly gale, with the spray 
flying all over the castle, and the Horses of 
the Hill wild with fright. Out they’d go in a 
lull, screaming like gulls, and back they’d be 
driven five good miles inland before they could 
come head to wind again. Butterfly-wings ? 
It was Magic—Magic as black as Merlin could 
make it, and the whole sea was green fire and 
white foam with singing mermaids in it. And 
the Horses of the Hill picked their way from 
one wave to another by the lightning flashes? 
That was how it was in the old days!’ 

‘Splendid,’ said Dan, but Una shuddered. 

‘ I’m glad they’re gone, then; but what made 
the People of the Hills go away?’ Una asked. 

‘Different things. I’ll tell you one of them 



WELAND’S SWORD 


IS 

some day—^the thing that made the biggest flit 
of any,’ said Puck. ‘ But they didn’t all flit at 
once. They dropped off, one by one, through 
the centuries. Most of them were foreigners, 
who couldn’t stand our climate. They flitted 
early.’ 

‘How early?’ said Dan. 

‘ A couple of thousand years or more. The 
fact is they began as Gods. The Phoenicians 
brought some over when they came to buy tin; 
and the Gauls, and the Jutes, and the Danes, 
and the Frisians, and the Angles brought more 
when they landed. They were always landing 
in those days, or being driven back to their 
ships, and they always brought their Gods 
with them. England is a bad country for 
Gods. Now, / began as I mean to go on. A 
bowl of porridge, a dish of milk, and a little 
quiet fun with the country folk in the lanes, 
was enough for me then, as it is now. I belong 
here, you see, and I have been mixed up with 
people all my days. But most of the others 
insisted on being Gods, and having temples, 
and altars, and priests, and sacrifices of their 
own.’ 

‘ People burned in wicker baskets? ’ said Dan.. 

‘ Like Miss Blake tells us about? ’ 

‘All sorts of sacrifices,’ said Puck. ‘If it 
w^asn’t men, it was horses, or cattle, or pigs, or 
metheglin—that’s a sticky, sweet sort of beer. 
/ never liked it. They were a stiff-necked, 
extravagant set of idols, the Old Things. But 
what was the result? Men don’t like being 
sacrificed at the best of times; they don’t even 
like sacrificing their farm-horses. After a 


i6 PUCK OF POOKAS HILL 

while men simply left the Old Things alone, 
and the roofs of their temples fell in, and the 
Old Things had to scuttle out and pick up a 
living as they could. Some of them took to 
hanging about trees, and hiding in graves and 
groaning o’ nights. If they groaned loud 
enough and long enough they might frighten 
a poor countryman into sacrificing a hen, or 
leaving a pound of butter for them. I remem¬ 
ber one Goddess called Belisama. She be¬ 
came a common wet water-spirit somewhere 
in Lancashire. And there were hundreds of 
other friends of mine. First they were Gods. 
Then they were People of the Hills, and then 
they flitted to other places because they 
couldn’t get on with the English for one reason 
or another. There was only one Old Thing, I 
remember, who honestly worked for his living 
after he came down in the world. He was 
called Weland, and he was a smith to some 
Gods. I’ve forgotten their names, but he used 
to make them swords and spears. I think he 
claimed kin with Thor of the Scandinavians.’ 

* Heroes of Asgard Thor?' said Una. She 
had been reading the book. 

‘Perhaps,’ answered Puck. ‘None the less, 
when bad times came, he didn’t beg or steal. 
He worked; and I was lucky enough to be able 
to do him a good turn.’ 

‘ Tell us about it,’ said Dan. ‘I think I like 
hearing of Old Things.’ 

They rearranged themselves comfortably, 
each chewing a grass stem. Puck propped 
himself on one strong arm and went on: 

‘Let’s think! I met Weland first on a No- 


WELAND’S SWORD 


17 

vember afternoon in a sleet stomi, on Peven- 
sey Level-^ 

‘Pevensey? Over the hill, you mean?’ Dan 
pointed south. 

‘Yes; but it was all marsh in those days, 
right up to Horsebridge and Hydeneye. I was 
on Beacon Hill—^they called it Brunanburgh 
then—when I saw the pale flame that burning 
thatch makes, and I went down to look. 
Some pirates—I think they must have been 
Peofn’s men—were burning a village on the 
Levels, and Weland’s image—a big, black 
wooden thing with amber beads round its neck 
—lay in the bows of a black thirty-two-oar 
galley that they had just beached. Bitter 
cold it was! There were icicles hanging from 
her deck, and the oars were glazed over with 
ice, and there was ice on Weland’s lips. When 
he saw me he began a long chant in his own 
tongue, telling me how he was going to rule 
England, and how I should smell the smoke of 
his altars from Lincolnshire to the Isle of 
Wight. I didn’t care! I’d seen too many Gods 
charging into Old England to be upset about it. 
I let him sing himself out while his men were 
burning the village, and then I said (I don’t 
know what put it into my head), “Smith of 
the Gods,” I said, “the time comes when I 
shall meet you plying your trade for hire by 
the wayside.” ’ 

‘ What did Weland say ? ’ said Una. ‘ Was he 
angry?’ 

‘ He called me names and rolled his eyes, and 
I went away to wake up the people inland. 
But the pirates conquered the country, and for 



i8 


PUCK OF POOR’S HILL 


centuries-Weland was a most important God. 
He had temples everywhere—^from Lincoln¬ 
shire to the Isle of Wight, as he said—^and his 
sacrifices were simply scandalous. To do him 
justice, he preferred horses to men; but men 
or horses, I knew that presently he’d have 
to come down in the world—like the other Old 
Things. I gave him lots of time—I gave him 
about a thousand years—and at the end of ’em 
I went into one of his temples near Andover to 
see how he prospered. There was his altar, 
and there was his image, and there were his 
priests, and there were the congregation, and 
everybody seemed quite happy, except We- 
land and the priests. In the old days the con¬ 
gregation were unhappy until the priests had 
chosen their sacrifices; and so would you have 
been. When the service began a priest rushed 
out, dragged a man up to the altar, pretended 
to hit him on the head with a little gilt axe, 
and the man fell down and pretended to die. 
Then everybody shouted: “ A sacrifice to We- 
land! A sacrifice to Weland!” ’ 

‘And the man wasn’t really dead? ’ said Una. 

‘Not a bit. All as much pretence as a dolls’ 
tea-party. Then they brought out a splendid 
white horse, and the priest cut some hair from 
its mane and tail and burned it on the altar, 
shouting, “A sacrifice!” That counted the 
same as if a man and a horse had been killed. 
I saw poor Weland’s face through the smoke, 
and I couldn’t help laughing. He looked so 
disgusted and so hungry, and all he had to 
satisfy himself was a horrid smell of burning 
hair. Just a dolls’ tea-party! 


WELAND’S SWORD 


19 


‘ I judged it better not to say anything then 
(’twouldn’t have been fair), and the next time 
I came to Andover, a few hundred years later, 
Weland and his temple were gone, and there 
was a Christian bishop in a Church there. 
None of the People of the Hills could tell me 
anything about him, and I supposed that he 
had left England.’ Puck turned; lay on the 
other elbow, and thought for a long time. 

‘Let’s see,’ he said at last. ‘It must have 
been some few years later—a year or two before 
the Conquest, I think—that I came back to 
Pook’s Hill here, and one evening I heard old 
Hobden talking about Weland’s Ford.’ 

‘ If you mean old Hobden the hedger, he’s 
only seventy-two. He told me so himself,’ 
said Dan. ‘He’s a intimate friend of ours.’ 

‘ You’re quite right,’ Puck replied. ‘ I meant 
old Hobden’s ninth great-grandfather. He 
was a free man and burned charcoal here¬ 
abouts. I’ve known the family, father and 
son, so long that I get confused sometimes. 
Hob of the Dene was my Hobden’s name, and 
he lived at the Forge cottage. Of course, I 
pricked up my ears when I heard Weland 
mentioned, and I scuttled through the woods 
to the Ford just beyond Bog Wood yonder.’ 
He jerked his head westward, where the valley 
narrows between wooded hills and steep hop- 
fields. 

‘Why, that’s Willingford Bridge,’ said Una. 

‘ We go there for walks often. There’s a king¬ 
fisher there.’ 

‘ It was Weland’s Ford then, dear. A road 
led down to it from the Beacon on the top of 


20 


PUCK OF POOR'S HILL 


the hill—a shocking bad road it was—and all 
the hillside was thick, thick oak-forest, with 
deer in it. There was no trace of Weland, 
but presently I saw a fat old farmer riding 
down from the Beacon under the greenwood 
tree. His horse had cast a shoe in the clay, 
and when he came to the Ford he dismounted, 
took a penny out of his purse, laid it on a stone, 
tied the old horse to an oak, and called out: 
“Smith, Smith, here is work for you!” Then 
he sat down and went to sleep. You can 
imagine how I felt when I saw a white-bearded, 
bent old blacksmith in a leather apron creep 
out from behind the oak and begin to shoe 
the horse. It was Weland himself. I was so 
astonished that I jumped out and said: “ What 
on Human Earth are you doing here, Weland ?' ’' 

‘ Poor Weland! ’ sighed Una. 

‘He pushed the long hair back from his 
forehead (he didn’t recognise me at first). 
Then he said: ''You ought to know. You 
foretold it, Old Thing. I’m shoeing horses for 
hire. I’m not even Weland now,” he said. 
“ They call me Wayland-Smith. ” ’ 

‘ Poor chap ! ’ said Dan. ‘ What did you 
say?’ 

‘What could I say? He looked up, with 
the horse’s foot on his lap, and he said, smiling, 
“ I remember the time when I wouldn’t have 
accepted this old bag of bones as a sacrifice, 
and now I’m glad enough to shoe him for a 
penny.” 

‘ “ Isn’t there any way for you to get back 
to Valhalla, or wherever you come from?” I 
said. 


WELAND’S SWORD 


21 


**'Vm afraid not,” he said, rasping away at 
the hoof. He had a wonderful touch with 
horses. The old beast was whinn} ing on his 
shoulder. '‘You may remember that I was not 
a gentle God in my Day and my Time and 
my Power. I shall never be released till some 
human being truly wishes me well.” 

‘ “ Surely, ” said I, “ the farmer can’t do less- 
than that. You’re shoeing the horse all round 
for him.” 

‘ “ Yes,” said he, “ and my nails will hold a 
shoe from one full moon to the next. But 
farmers and Weald Clay,” said he, “are both 
uncommon cold and sour.” 

‘ Would you believe it, that when that farmer 
woke and found his horse shod he rode 
away without one word of thanks? I was so 
angry that I wheeled his horse right round 
and walked him back three miles to the Beacon 
just to teach the old sinner politeness.’ 

‘ Were you invisible ? ’ said Una. Puck nod¬ 
ded, gravely. 

'The Beacon was always laid in those days 
ready to light, in case the French landed at 
Pevensey; and I walked the horse about and 
about it that lee-long summer night. The 
farmer thought he was bewitched—^well, he 
waSy of course—^and began to pray and shout. 
/ didn’t care! I was as good a Christian as he 
any fair-day in the County, and about four 
o’clock in the morning a young novice came 
along from the monastery that used to stand 
on the top of Beacon hill.’ 

'What’s a novice?’ said Dan. 

' It really means a man who is beginning to 


22 


PUCK OF POOR’S HILL 


be a monk, but in those days people sent their 
sons to a monastery just the same as a school. 
This young fellow had been to a monastery in 
France for a few months every year, and he 
was finishing his studies in the monastery close 
to his home here. Hugh was his name, and 
he had got up to go fishing hereabouts. His 
people owned all this valley. Hugh heard 
the farmer shouting, and asked him what in 
the world he meant. The old man spun him 
a wonderful tale about fairies and goblins 
and witches; and I know he hadn’t seen a 
thing except rabbits and red deer all that 
night. (The People of the Hills are like otters 
—^they don’t show except when they choose.) 
But the novice wasn’t a fool. He looked 
down at the horse’s feet, and saw the new 
shoes fastened as only Weland knew how to 
fasten ’em. (Weland had a way of turning 
down the nails that folks called the Smith’s 
Clinch.) 

H’m! ” said the novice. Where did you 
get your horse shod?” 

‘The farmer wouldn’t tell him at first, 
because the priests never liked their people 
to have any dealings with the Old Things. At 
last he confessed that the Smith had done it. 
“What did you pay him?” said the novice. 
“ Penny, ” said the farmer, very sulkily. 
“That’s less than a Christian would have 
charged,” said the novice. “I hope you 
threw a ‘Thank you’ into the bargain.” 
“No,” said the farmer; “Wayland-Smith’s a 
heathen.” “ Heathen or no heathen,” said the 
novice, “ you took his help, and where you get 


WELAND’S SWORD 


help there you must give thanks. ’ ^ “ What ? ’' 
said the farmer—he was in a furious temper 
because I was walking the old horse in circles 
all this time—“ What, you young jackanapes ? ” 
said he. “Then by your reasoning I ought 
to say ‘Thank you ’ to Satan if he helped me? 

“ Don’t roll about up there splitting reasons 
with me, ” said the novice. “ Come back to 
the Ford and thank the Smith, or you’ll be 
sorry. ” 

‘ Back the farmer had to go! I led the horse, 
though no one saw me, and the novice walked 
beside us, his gown swishing through the shiny 
dew and his fishing-rod across his shoulders 
spearwise. When we reached the Ford again 
—^it was five o’clock and misty still under the 
oaks—^the farmer simply wouldn’t say “ Thank 
you.” He said he’d tell the Abbot that the 
novice wanted him to worship heathen gods. 
Then Hugh the novice lost his temper. He 
just cried, “Out!” put his arm under the 
farmer’s fat leg, and heaved him from his 
saddle on to the turf, and before he could rise 
he caught him by the back of the neck and 
shook him like a rat till the farmer growled, 
“ Thank you, Wayland-Smith. ” ’ 

‘Did Weland see all this?’ said Dan. 

‘Oh, yes, and he shouted his old war-cry 
when the farmer thudded on to the ground. 
He was delighted. Then the novice turned 
to the oak and said, “ Ho! Smith of the Gods, 
I am ashamed of this rude farmer; but for all 
you have done in kindness and charity to him 
and to others of our people, I thank you and 
wish you well. ” Then he picked up his 


24 


PUCK OF POOK’S HILL 


fishing-rod—^it looked more like a tall spear 
than ever—and tramped off down your valley/ 
‘Andwhat did poor Weland do?' said Una. 
‘ He laughed and cried with joy, because he 
had been released at last, and could go away. 
But he was an honest Old Thing. He had 
worked for his living and he paid his debts 
before he left. “I shall give that novice a 
gift, ” said Weland. “ A gift that shall do 
him good the wide world over, and Old Eng¬ 
land after him. Blow up my fire. Old Thing, 
while I get the iron for my last task. ” 
Then he made a sword —a dark grey, wavy- 
lined sword—and I blew the fire while he 
hammered. By Oak, Ash, and Thom, I tell 
you, Weland was a Smith of the Gods! He 
cooled that sword in mnning water twice, and 
the third time he cooled it in the evening dew, 
and he laid it out in the moonlight and said 
Runes (that’s charms) over it, and he carved 
Runes of Prophecy on the blade. “Old 
Thing, ” he said to me, wiping his forehead, 
“ this is the best blade that Weland ever made. 
Even the user will never know how good it is. 
Come to the monastery. ” 

‘ We went to the dormitory where the monks 
vslept. We saw the novice fast asleep in his cot, 
and Weland put the sword into his hand, and 
I remember the young fellow gripped it in his 
sleep. Then Weland strode as far as he dared 
into the Chapel and threw down all his shoeing- 
tools—^his hammer, and pincers, and rasps—■ 
to show that he had done with them for ever. 
It sounded like suits of armour falling, and 
the sleepy monks ran in, for they thought the 


WELAND’S SWORD 


25 


monastery had been attacked by the French. 
The novice came first of all, waving his 
new sword and shouting Saxon battle-cries. 
When they saw the shoeing-tools they were 
very bewildered, till the novice asked leave 
to speak, and told what he had done to the 
farmer, and what he had said to Wayland- 
Smith, and how, though the dormitory light 
was burning, he had found the wonderful 
rune-carved sword in his cot. 

‘ The Abbot shook his head at first, and 
then he laughed and said to the novice: “ Son 
Hugh, it needed no sign from a heathen God 
to show me that you will never be a monk. 
Take your sword, and keep your sword, and. 
go with your sword, and be as gentle as you 
are strong and courteous. We will hang up., 
the Smith’s tools before the Altar, ” he said, 
because, whatever the Smith of the Gods: 
may have been in the old days, we know that, 
he worked honestly for his living and made: 
gifts to Mother Church. ” Then they went to- 
bed again, all except the novice, and he sat up 
in the garth playing with his sword. Then 
Weland said to me by the stables: Farewell, 
Old Thing; you had the right of it. You saw 
me come to England, and you see me go. 
Farewell! ” 

‘ With that he strode down the hill to the 
corner of the Great Woods—Woods Comer,, 
you call it now—^to the very place where he had 
first landed—^and I heard him moving through 
the thickets towards Horsebridge for a little, 
and then he was gone. That was how it 
happened. I saw it. ’ 


26 


PUCK OF POOK’S HILL 


Both children drew a long breath, 

'But what happened to Hugh the novice?^ 
isaid Una. 

'And the sword?’ said Dan. 

Puck looked down the meadow that lay all 
quiet and cool in the shadow of Book’s Hill. 
A corncrake jarred in a hay-field near by, and 
the small trouts of the brook began to jump. 
A big white moth flew unsteadily from the 
alders and flapped round the children’s heads, 
and the least little haze of water-mist rose 
from the brook. 

■'Do you really want to know?’ Puck said. 

‘'We do,’ cried the children. ‘Awfully!’ 

'Very good. I promised you that you shall 
^see What you shall see, and you shall hear 
What you shall hear, though It shall have 
Ihappened three thousand year; but just now 
it seems to me that, unless you go back to the 
house, people will be looking for you. Pll 
walk with you as far as the gate. ’ 

‘Will you be here when we come again?’ 
they asked. 

‘Surely, sure-ly, ’ said Puck. ‘I’ve been 
here some time already. One minute first, 
please. ’ 

He gave them each three leaves—one of 
Oak, one of Ash, and one of Thorn. 

' Bite these,’ said he. ‘Otherwise you might 
!be talking at home of what you’ve seen and 
lieard, and—if I know human beings—they’d 
send for the doctor. Bite! ’ 

They bit hard, and found themselves walk¬ 
ing side by side to the lower gate. Their 
father was leaning over it. 


WELAND’S SWORD 


2f 


‘And how did your play go?’ he asked. 

*Oh, splendidly,’ said Dan. 'Only after¬ 
wards, I think, we w^ent to sleep. It was very 
K)t and quiet. Don’t you remember, Una?’* 
Una shook her head and said nothing. 

*I see, ’ said her father. 

Late—late in the evening Kilmeny came home, 

For Kilmeny had been she could not tell where, 

And Kilmeny had seen what she could not declare. 

But why are you chewing leaves at your time 
of life, daughter? For fun?’ 

‘No. It was for something, but I can’t 
azactly remember, ’ said Una. 

And neither of them could till— 





A TREE SONG 


Of all the trees that grow so fair. 

Old England to adorns 
Greater are none beneath the Sun, 

Than Oak, and Ash, and Thorn, 

Sing Oak, and Ash, and Thorn, good Sirs 
(All of a Midsummer morn)! 

Surely we sing no little thing. 

In Oak, and Ash, and Thorn! 


Oak of the Clay lived many a day, 

Or ever Mneas began; 

Ash of the Loam was a lady at home. 

When Brut was an outlaw man; 
Thorn of the Down saw New Troy Town- 
{From which was London born); 
Witness hereby the ancientry 
Of Oak, and Ash, and Thorn! 


Yew that is old in churchyard mould, 

He breedeth a mighty bow; 

Alder for shoes do wise men choose, 

And beech for cups also. 

But when ye have killed, and your bowl is spilled^ 
And your shoes are clean outworn. 

Back ye must speed for all that ye need. 

To Oak, and Ash, and Thorn! 

2g 


PUCK OF POOK'S HILL 


30 

Ellum she hateth mankind, and waiteth 
Till every gust he laid, 

To drop a limb on the head of him, 

That anyway trusts her shade 
But whether a lad he sober or sad. 

Or mellow with ale from the horn. 

He will take no wrong when he lieth along 
'Neath Oak, and Ash, and Thoryi! 


Oh, do not tell the Priest ottr plight. 

Or he would call it a sin; 

But—we have been out in the woods all night 
A-conjuring Summer in! 

And we bring you news by word of mouth — 
Good news for cattle and corn — 

Now is the Sun come up from the South, 
With Oak, and Ash, and Thorn! 


Sing Oak, and Ash, and Thorn, good Sirs 
(All of a Midsummer morn)! 

England shall bide till Judgment Tide. 
By Oak, and Ash and Thorn! 


YOUNG MEN AT THE MANOR 


r 



■ 

; 






YOUNG MEN AT THE MANOR 


'^HEY were fishing, a few days later, in the 
bed of the brook that for centuries had 
cut deep into the soft valley soil. The trees clos¬ 
ing overhead made long tunnels through which 
the sunshine worked in blobs and patches. 
Down in the tunnels were bars of sand and 
gravel, old roots and trunks covered with moss 
or painted red by the irony water; foxgloves 
growing lean and pale towards the light; clumps 
of fern and thirsty shy flowers who could not 
live away from moisture and shade. In the 
pools you could see the wave thrown up by 
the trouts as they charged hither and yon, and 
the pools were joined to each other—except 
in flood time, when all was one brown rush— 
by sheets of thin broken water that poured 
themselves chuckling round the darkness of 
the next bend. 

This was one of the children’s most , secret 
hunting-grounds, and their particular friend, 
old Hobden the hedger, had shown them 
how to use it. Except for the click of a 
rod hitting a low willow, or a switch and 
tussle among the young ash-leaves as a 
line hung up for the minute, nobody in 
the hot pasture could have guessed what 
game was going on among the trouts below 
the banks. 

‘We’s got half-a-dozen,’ said Dan, after a 
33 


34 


PUCK OF POOKAS HILL 


warm, wet hour. ‘I vote we go up to Stone 
Bay and try Long Pool. ’ 

Una nodded—^most of her talk was by nods 
—^and they crept from the gloom of the tunnels 
towards the tiny weir that turns the brook 
into the mill-stream. Here the banks are low 
and bare, and the glare of the afternoon sun 
on the Long Pool below the weir makes your 
eyes ache. 

When they were in the open they nearly 
fell down with astonishment. A huge grey 
horse, whose tail-hairs crinkled the glassy 
water, was drinking in the pool, and the rip¬ 
ples about his muzzle flashed like melted gold. 
On his back sat an old, white-haired man 
dressed in a loose glimmery gown of chain- 
mail. He was bareheaded, and a nut-shaped 
iron helmet hung at his saddle-bow. His 
reins were of red leather five or six inches deep, 
scalloped at the edges, and his high padded 
saddle with its red girths was held fore and 
aft by a red leather breastband and crupper. 

‘Look!' said Una, as though Dan were not 
staring his very eyes out. ‘It's like the picture 
in your room—Sir Isumbras at the Ford. " ’ 

The rider turned towards them, and his 
thin, long face was just as sweet and gentle as 
that of the knight who carries the children in 
that picture. 

‘They should be here now, Sir Richard,' 
said Puck’s deep voice among the willow-herb. 

‘They are here,’ the knight said, and he 
smiled at Dan with the string of trouts in his 
hand. ‘There seems no great change in boys 
since mine fished this water.' 


YOUNG MEN AT THE MANOR 35 

* If your horse has drunk, we shall be more at 
ease in the Ring, ’ said Puck; and he nodded 
to the children as though he had never mag- 
icked away their memories the week before. 

The great horse turned and hoisted himself 
into the pasture with a kick and a scramble 
that tore the clods down rattling. 

‘Your pardon!’ said Sir Richard to Dan. 

‘ When these lands were mine, I never loved 
that mounted men should cross the brook 
except by the paved ford. But my Swallow 
here v/as thirsty, and I wished to meet you. ’ 

‘We’re very glad you’ve come, sir,’ said 
Dan. ‘It doesn’t matter in the least about 
the banks. ’ 

He trotted across the pasture on the sword- 
side of the mighty horse, and it was a mighty 
iron-handled sword that swung from Sir 
Richard’s belt. Una walked behind with 
Puck. She remembered everything now. 

‘ I’m sorry about the Leaves,’ he said, ‘but 
it would never have done if you had gone 
home and told, would it ? ’ 

‘I s’pose not,’ Una answered. ‘But you 
said that all the fair—People of the Hills had 
left England. ’ 

‘So they have; but I told you that you should 
come and go and look and know, didn’t I? 
The knight isn’t a fairy. He’s Sir Richard 
Dalyngridge, a very old friend of mine. He 
came over with William the Conqueror, and 
he wants to see you particularly. ’ 

‘What for?’ said Una. 

‘On account of your great wisdom and 
learning, ’ Puck replied, without a twinkle. 


36 


PUCK OF POOR’S HILL 


‘Us?’ said Una. ‘Why, I don’t know my 
Nine Times—^not to say it dodging; and Dan 
makes the most awful mess of fractions. He 
can’t mean us!' 

‘Una!’ Dan called back. ‘ Sir Richard says 
he is going to tell what happened to We- 
land’s sword. He’s got it. Isn’t it splen- 
did?’ 

‘Nay—^nay,’ said Sir Richard, dismounting 
as they reached the Ring, in the bend of the 
mill-stream bank. ‘ It is you that must tell 
me, for I hear the youngest child in our Eng¬ 
land to-day is as wise as our wisest clerk. ’ 
He slipped the bit out of Swallow’s mouth, 
dropped the ruby-red reins over his head, 
and the wise horse moved off to graze. 

Sir Richard (they noticed he limped a 
little) unslung his great sword. 

‘ That’s it, ’ Dan whispered to Una. 

‘This is the sword that Brother Hugh had 
from Wayland-Smith, ’ Sir Richard said. 
‘Once he gave it to me, but I would not take it; 
but at the last it became mine after such a 
fight as never christened man fought. Seel’ 
He half drew it from its sheath and turned 
it before them. On either side just below 
the handle, where the Runic letters shivered 
as though they were alive, were two deep 
gouges in the dull, deadly steel. ‘ Now, what 
Thing made those?’ said he. ‘I know not, 
but you, perhaps, can say. ’ 

‘Tell them all the tale, Sir Richard,’ said 
Puck. ‘ It concerns their land somewhat. ’ 

‘ Yes, from the very beginning,’ Una pleaded, 
for the knight’s good face and the smile on it 


YOUNG MEN AT THE MANOR 37 

more than ever reminded her of ‘Sir Isumbras 
at the Ford. ’ 

They settled down to listen, Sir Richard 
bare-headed to the sunshine, dandling the 
sword in both hands, while the grey horse 
cropped outside the Ring, and the helmet on 
the saddle-bow dinged softly each time he 
jerked his head. 

‘From the beginning, then,* Sir Richard 
said, ‘ since it concerns your land, I will tell 
the tale. When our Duke came out of Nor¬ 
mandy to take his England, great knights 
(have ye heard ?) came and strove hard to serve 
the Duke, because he promised them lands 
here, and small knights followed the great 
ones. My folk in Normandy were poor; but 
a great knight, Engerrard of the Eagle—Enge- 
nulf DeAquila—who was kin to my father, 
followed the Earl of Mortain, who followed 
William the Duke, and I followed De Aquila. 
Yes, with thirty men-at-arms out of my 
father’s house and a new sword, I set out to 
conquer England three days after I was made 
knight. I did not then know that England 
would conquer me. We went up to Sant- 
lache with the rest—a very great host of us.' 

‘Does that mean the Battle of Hastings—• 
Ten Sixty-Six?* Una whispered, and Puck 
nodded, so as not to interrupt. 

‘At Santlache, over the hill yonder’—he 
pointed south-eastward towards Fairlight— 
‘we found Harold’s men. We fought. At 
the day’s end they ran. My men went with 
De Aquila’s to chase and plunder, and in that 
chase Engerrard of the Eagle was slain, and 



38 


PUCK OF POOK’S HILL 


his son Gilbert took his banner and his men 
forward. This I did not know till after, for 
Swallow here was cut in the flank, so I stayed 
to wash the wound at a brook by a thorn. 
There a single Saxon cried out to me in French, 
and we fought together. I should have known 
his voice, but we fought together. For a 
long time neither had any advantage, till by 
pure ill-fortune his foot slipped and his sword 
flew from his hand. Now I had but newly 
been made knight, and wished, above all, 
to be courteous and fameworthy, so I fores¬ 
hore to strike and bade him get his sword 
again. “ A plague on my sword, ” said he. 
“It has lost me my first fight. You have 
spared my life. Take my sword. ” He held 
it out to me, but as I stretched my hand the 
sword groaned like a stricken man, and I 
leaped back crying, “Sorcery!” 

[The children looked at the sword as though 
it might speak again.] 

‘ Suddenly a clump of vSaxons ran out upon 
me and, seeing a Norman alone, would have 
killed me, but my Saxon cried out that I 
was his prisoner, and beat them off. Thus, 
see you, he saved my life. He put me on my 
horse and led me through the woods ten long 
miles to this valley. ’ 

‘To here, d’you mean?’ said Una. 

‘To this very valley. We came in by the 
Lower Ford under the King’s Hill yonder’—■ 
he pointed eastward where the valley widens. 

‘And was that Saxon Hugh the novice?’ 
Dan asked. 

'Yes, and more than that. He had been 



YOUNG MEN AT THE MANOR 


39 


for three years at the monastery at Bee by 
Rouen, where’—Sir Richard chuckled—^“the 
Abbot Herluin would not suffer me to remain. ’ 
* Why wouldn’t he? ’ said Dan. 

‘ Because I rode my horse into the refectory, 
when the scholars were at meat, to show the 
Saxon boys we Normans were not afraid of 
an abbot. It w'as that very Saxon Hugh 
tempted me to do it, and we had not met since 
that day. I thought I knew his voice even 
inside my helmet, and, for all that our Lords 
fought, we each rejoiced we had not slain the 
other. He walked by my side, and he told 
me how a Heathen God, as he believed, had 
given him his sword, but he said he had never 
heard it sing before. I remember I warned 
him to beware of sorcery and quick enchant¬ 
ments. ’ Sir Richard smiled to himself. ‘ I 
was very young—very young! 

‘ When we came to his house here we had 
almost forgotten that we had been at blows. 
It was near midnight, and the Great Hall was 
full of men and women waiting news. There 
I first saw his sister, the Lady ^lueva, of 
whom he had spoken to us in France. She 
cried out fiercely at me, and would have had 
me hanged in that hour, but her brother said 
that I had spared his life—lie said not hoiv 
he saved mine from his Saxons—and that 
our Duke had won the day; and even while 
they wrangled over my poor body, of a sudden 
he fell down in a sw^oon from his wounds. 

I ‘ “ This is thy fault, ” said the Lady .^lueva 
1 to me, and she kneeled above him and called 
I for wine and cloths. 


40 


. PUCK OF POOR’S HILL 


‘ “ If I had known, ” I answered, “ he should 
have ridden and I walked. But he set me on 
my horse; he made no complaint; he walked 
teide me and spoke merrily throughout. I 
pray I have done him no harm. ” 

‘ “ Thou hast need to pray, ” she said, catch¬ 
ing up her underlip. “If he dies, thou shalt 
hang!” 

‘They bore off Hugh to his chamber; but 
three tall men of the house bound me and set 
me under the beam of the Great Hall with a 
rope round my neck. The end of the rope 
they flung over the beam, and they sat them 
down by the fire to wait word whether Hugh 
lived or died. They cracked nuts with their 
knife-hilts the while. ’ 

‘ And how did you feel ? ’ said Dan. 

‘Very weary; but I did heartily pray for 
my schoolmate Hugh his health. About 
noon I heard horses in the valley, and the 
three men loosed my ropes and fled out, and 
De Aquila’s men rode up. Gilbert de Aquila 
came with them, for it was his boast that, 
like his father, he forgot no man that served 
him. He was little, like his father, but ter¬ 
rible, with a nose like an eagle’s nose and 
yellow eyes like an eagle. He rode tall war- 
horses—groans, which he bred himself—^and 
he could never abide to be helped into the 
saddle. He saw the rope hanging from the 
beam and laughed, and his men laughed, for 
I was too stiff to rise. 

‘ “ This is poor entertainment for a Norman 
knight,” he said, “but, such as it is, let us 
be grateful. Show me, boy, to whom thou 


YOUNG MEN AT THE MANOR 41 

owest most, and we will pay them out of 
hand/^’ 

‘What did he mean? To kill 'em?’ said 
Dan. 

‘Assuredly. But I looked at the Lady 
^lueva where she stood among her maids, 
and her brother beside her. De Aquila’s men 
had driven them all into the Great Hall. ’ 

‘Was she pretty?’ said Una. 

‘In all my life I had never seen woman 
fit to strew rushes before my Lady ^lueva, ’ 
the knight replied, quite simply and quietly. 
‘As I looked at her I thought I might save her 
and her house by a jest. 

Seeing that I came somewhat hastily and 
without warning,” said I to De Aquila, “I 
have no fault to find with the courtesy that 
these Saxons have shown me. ” But my 
voice shook. It is—^it was not good to jest 
with that little man. 

‘ All were silent awhile, till DeAquila laughed. 
“Look, men —sl miracle!’’ said he. “The 
fight is scarce sped, my father is not yet buried, 
and here we find our youngest knight already 
set down in his Manor, while his Saxons—^ye 
can see it in their fat faces—have paid him 
homage and service! By the Saints,’’ he 
said, rubbing his nose, “I never thought 
England would be so easy won! Surely I can 
do no less than give the lad what he has taken. 
This Manor shall be thine, boy, ’’ he said, “ till 
I come again, or till thou art slain. Now, 
mount, men, and ride. We follow our Duke 
into Kent to make him King of England. ’’ 

‘ He drew me with him to the door while 


42 


PUCK OF POOR’S HILL 


they brought his horse—a lean roan, taller 
than my Swallow here, but not so well girthed. 

‘“Hark to me,” he said, fretting with his 
great war-gloves. “ I have given thee this 
Manor, which is a Saxon hornets’ nest, and I 
think thou wilt be slain in a month—as 
my father was slain. Yet if thou canst 
keep the roof on the hall, the thatch on the 
bam, and the plough in the furrow till I come 
back, thou shalt hold the Manor from me; 
for the Duke has promised our Earl Mortain 
all the lands by Pevensey, and Mortain will 
give me of them what he would have given 
my father. God knows if thou or I shall 
live till England is won; but remember, boy, 
that here and now fighting is foolishness 
and”—^he reached for the reins—craft and 
cunning is all. ” 

‘ “ Alas, I have no cunning, ” said I. 

‘“Not yet,” said he, hopping abroad, foot 
in stirmp, and poking his horse in the belly 
with his toe. “Not yet, but I think thou 
hast a good teacher. Farewell! Hold the 
Manor and live. Lose the Manor and hang, ” 
he said, and spurred out, his shield-straps 
squeaking behind him. 

‘ So, children, here was I, little more than a 
boy, and Santlache fight not two days old, 
left alone with my thirty men-at-arms, in a 
land I knew not, among a people whose tongue 
I could not speak, to hold down the land 
which I had taken from them. ’ 

‘And that was here at home?’ said Una. 

‘Yes, here. Seel From the Upper Ford, 
Weland’s Ford, to the Lower Ford, by the 


YOUNG MEN AT THE MANOR 


45 


Belle Allde, west and east it ran half a league.. 
From the Beacon of Brunanburgh behind us 
here, south and north it ran a full league—and 
all the woods were full of broken men from 
Santlache, Saxon thieves, Norman plunderers,, 
robbers, and deerstealers. A hornets’ nest 
indeed! 

‘When De Aquila had gone, Hugh would 
have thanked me for saving their lives; but 
Lady ^lueva said that I had done it only 
for the sake of receiving the Manor. 

‘ “ How could I know that De Aquila would 
give it me?” I said. “If I had told him 
I had spent my night in your halter he would 
have burned the place twice over by now. ” 

‘ “ If any man had put my neck in a rope, ” 
she said, “ I would have seen his house burned 
thrice over before I would have made terms. ” 

‘ “ But it was a woman, ” I said; and I laughed 
and she wept and said that I mocked her in 
her captivity. 

‘ “ Lady, ” said I, “ there is no captive in 
this valley except one, and he is not a Saxon. ” 

‘At this she cried that I was a Norman 
thief, who came with false, sweet words, hav¬ 
ing intended from the first to turn her out 
in the fields to beg her bread. Into the fields! 
She had never seen the face of war! 

‘ I was angry, and answered, “ This much 
at least I can disprove, for I swear”—and on 
my sword-hilt I swore it in that place—I 
swear I will never set foot in the Great Hall 
till the Lady ^lueva herself shall summons: 
me there. ” 

‘ She went away, saying nothing, and I 


44 


PUCK OF POOK’S HILL 


walked out, and Hugh limped after me, whist¬ 
ling dolorously (that is a custom of the Eng¬ 
lish), and we came upon the three Saxons that 
had bound me. They were now bound by 
my men-at-arms, and behind them stood 
some fifty stark and sullen churls of the House 
and the Manor, waiting to see what should 
fall. We heard De Aquila’s trumpets blow 
thin through the woods Kentward. 

‘ “ Shall we hang these? ” said my men. 

‘ “ Then my churls will fight, ” said Hugh, 
beneath his breath; but I bade him ask the 
three what mercy they hoped for. 

' “ None, ” said they all. “ She bade us 
hang thee if our master died. And we 
would have hanged thee. There is no more 
to it.” 

‘ As I stood doubting a woman ran down 
from the oak wood above the King’s Hill 
yonder, and cried out that some Normans 
were driving off the swine there. 

‘“Norman or Saxon,” said I, “we must 
beat them back, or they will rob us every day. 
Out at them with any arms ye have!” So I 
loosed those three carles and we ran together, 
my men-at-arms and the Saxons with bills 
and bows which they had hidden in the thatch 
of their huts, and Hugh led them. Half-way 
up the King’s Hill we found a false fellow 
from Picardy—a sutler that sold wine in the 
Duke’s camp—with a dead knight’s shield on 
his arm, a stolen horse under him, and some 
ten or twelve wastrels at his tail, all cutting 
and slashing at the pigs. We beat them off, 
and saved our pork. One hundred and sev- 


YOUNG MEN AT THE MANOR 45 

enty pigs we saved in that great battle.' Sir 
Richard laughed. 

'That, then, was our first work together, 
and I bade Hugh tell his folk that so would I 
deal with any man, knight or churl, Norman 
or Saxon, who stole as much as one egg from 
our valley. Said he to me, riding home: 
“Thou hast gone far to conquer England 
this evening.” I answered: “England must 
be thine and mine, then. Help me, Hugh, 
to deal aright with this people. Make them 
to know that if they slay me De Aquila will 
surely send to slay them, and he will put a 
worse man in my place. ” “ That may well 

be true, ” said he, and gave me his hand. 
“ Better the devil we know than the devil we 
know not, till we can pack you Normans 
home.” And so, too, said his Saxons; and 
they laughed as we drove the pigs downhill. 
But I think some of them, even then, began 
not to hate me. ’ 

'I like Brother Hugh,’ said Una, softly. 

‘ Beyond question he was the most perfect, 
courteous, valiant, tender, and wise knight 
that ever drew breath, ’ said Richard, caressing 
the sword. ‘He hung up his sword—^this 
sword—on the wall of the Great Hall, because 
he said it was fairly mine, and never he took 
it down till De Aquila returned, as I shall pre¬ 
sently show. For three months his men and 
mine guarded the valley, till all robbers and 
nightwalkers learned there was nothing to get 
from us save hard tack and a hanging. Side 
by side we fought against all who came—^thrice 
a week sometimes we fought—against thieves 


46 


PUCK OF POOR’S HILL 


and landless knights looking for good manors. 
Then we were in some peace, and I made shift 
by Hugh’s help to govern the valley—^for all 
this valley of yours was my Manor—as a 
knight should. I kept the roof on the hall and 
the thatch on the bam, but . . . The En¬ 

glish are a bold people. His Saxons would 
laugh and jest wdth Hugh, and Hugh with 
them, and—this was marvellous to me—if 
even the meanest of them said that such and 
.such a thing was the Custom of the Manor, 
then straightway would Hugh and such old 
men of the Manor as might be near forsake 
everything else to debate the matter—have 
seen them stop the mill with the corn half 
ground—and if the custom or usage were 
proven to be as it was said, why, that was the 
end of it, even though it were flat against 
Hugh, his wish and command. Wonderful!’ 

‘Aye,’ said Puck, breaking in for the first 
time. ‘The Custom of Old England was 
here before your Norman knights came, and 
it outlasted them, though they fought against 
it cruel. ’ 

‘Not I, ’ said Richard. ‘I let the Saxons 
go their stubborn way, but when my own men- 
at-arms, Normans not six months in England, 
stood up and told me what was the custom 
of the country, then I was angry. Ah, good 
days! Ah, wonderful people! And I loved 
them all. ’ 

The knight lifted his arms as though he 
would hug the whole dear valley, and Swallow, 
hearing the chink of his chain-mail, looked 
up and whinnied softly. 


YOUNG MEN AT THE MANOR 47 

‘At last/ he went on, ‘after a year of striving 
and contriving and some little driving, De i 
Aquila came to the valley, alone and without 
warning. I saw him first at the Lower Ford^* 
with a swine-herd’s brat on his saddle-bow. 

There is no need for thee to give any 
account of thy stewardship, ” said he. “ I 
have it all from the child here. ” And he told 
me how the young thing had stopped his tall 
horse at the Ford, by waving of a branch, 
and crying that the way was barred. “And 
if one bold, bare babe be enough to guard 
the Ford in these days, thou hast done 
well, ” said he, and puffed and wiped his 
head. 

He pinched the child’s cheek, and looked at 
our cattle in the fiat by the brook. 

‘ “ Both fat, ” said he, rubbing his nose. 
“This is craft and cunning such as I love. 
What did I tell thee when I rode away, boy ? ” 

‘ “ Hold the Manor or hang, ” said I. I had 
never forgotten it. 

‘ “ True. And thou hast held. ” He clam¬ 
bered from his saddle and with sword’s point 
cut out a turf from the bank and gave it me 
where I kneeled. ’ 

Dan looked at Una, and Una looked at 
Dan. 

‘That’s seizin,’ said Puck, in a whisper. 

‘ “ Now thou art lawfully seized of the Ma¬ 
nor, Sir Richard, ” said he—’twas the first 
time he ever called me that—“ thou and thy 
heirs for ever. This must serve till the King’s 
clerks write out thy title on a -parchment. 
England is all ours—if we can hold it. ” 


48 


PUCK OF POOK’S HILL 


'“What service shall I pay?” I asked, and 
I remember I was proud beyond words. 

‘“Knight’s fee, boy, knight’s fee!” said he, 
hopping round his horse on one foot. (Have 
I said he was little, and could not endure to 
be helped to his saddle?) “ Six mounted men 
or twelve archers thou shalt send me when¬ 
ever I call for them, and—^where got you that 
com? ” said he, for it was near harvest, and our 
com stood well. “I have never seen such 
bright straw. Send me three bags of the same 
seed yearly, and furthermore, in memory of 
our last meeting—with the rope round thy 
neck—entertain me and my men for two days 
of each year in the Great Hall of thy Manor. ” 

‘ “ Alas! ” said I, “ then my Manor is already 
forfeit. I am under vow not to enter the 
Great Hall. ” And I told him what I had 
sworn to the Lady ^ueva.’ 

‘And hadn’t you ever been into the house 
since?’ said Una. 

‘Never, ’ Sir Richard answered smiling. 
‘I had made me a little hut of wood up the 
hill, and there I did justice and slept. . . . 

De Aquila wheeled aside, and his shield shook 
on his back. “ No matter, boy, ” said he. 
“ I will remit the homage for a year.” ’ 

‘He meant Sir Richard needn’t give him 
dinner there the first year, ’ Puck explained. 

*De Aquila stayed with me in the hut and 
Hugh, who could read and write and cast 
accounts, showed him the roll of the Manor, 
in which were written all the names of our 
fields and men, and he asked a thousand ques¬ 
tions touching the land, tha timber, the 


YOUNG MEN AT THE MANOR 49 

grazing, the mill, and the fish-ponds, and the 
worth of every man in the valley. But never 
he named the Lady ^lueva’s name, nor went 
he near the Great Hall. By night he drank 
with us in the hut. Yes, he sat on the straw 
like an eagle ruffled in her feathers, his yellow 
eyes rolling above the cup, and he pounced 
in his talk like an eagle, swooping from one 
thing to another, but always binding fast. 
Yes; he would lie still awhile, and then rustle 
in the straw, and speak sometimes as though 
he were King William himself, and anon he 
would speak in parables and tales, and if at 
once we saw not his meaning he would yerk 
us in the ribs with his scabbarded sword. 

‘ “Look you, boys, ” said he, “I am bom 
out of my due time. Five hundred years ago 
I would have made all England such an 
England as neither Dane, Saxon, nor Nor¬ 
man should have conquered. Five hundred 
years hence I should have been such a coun- 
cillor^ to Kings as the world hath never 
dreamed of. ’Tis all here, said he, tapping 
his big head, “but it hath no play in this 
black age. Now Hugh here is a better 
man than thou art, Richard. “ He had 
made his voice harsh and croaking, like a 
raven’s, 

‘“Truth,” said I. “But for Hugh, his 
help and patience and long-suffering, I could 
never have kept the Manor. ” 

“‘Nor thy life either, ” said De Aquila. 
“ Hugh has saved thee not once, but a hundred 
times. Be still, Hugh!” he said. “Dost 
thou know, Richard, why Hugh slept, and 


50 


PUCK OF POOKAS HILL 


why he still sleeps, among thy Norman men- 
at-arms?” 

‘“To be near me,” said I, for I thought 
this was truth. 

‘“Fool!” said De Aquila. “It is because 
his Saxons have begged him to rise against 
thee, and to sweep every Norman out of the 
valley. No matter how I know. It is 
truth. Therefore Hugh hath made himself 
an hostage for thy life, well knowing that if 
any harm befell thee from his Saxons thy 
Normans would slay him without remedy. 
And this his Saxons know. It is true, 
Hugh?” 

‘ “ In some sort, ” said Hugh, shamefacedly; 
“ at least, it was true half a year ago. My 
Saxons would not harm Richard now. I 
think they know him; but I judged it best to 
make sure. ” 

‘ Look, children, what that man had done— 
and I had never guessed it! Night after 
night had he lain down among my men-at- 
arms, knowing that if one Saxon had lifted 
knife against me his life would have an¬ 
swered for mine. 

'“Yes,” said De Aquila. “And he is 
a swordless man. ” He pointed to Hugh’s 
belt, for Hugh had put away his sword—did 
I tell you?—the day after it flew from his 
hand at Santlache. He carried only the 
short knife and the long-bow. “ Sword¬ 
less and landless art thou, Hugh; and they 
call thee kin to Earl Godwin. ” (Hugh was 
indeed of Godwin’s blood.) “ The Manor 
that was thine was given to this boy and to his 


YOUNG MEN AT THE MANOR 51 

children for ever. Sit up and beg, for he can 
turn thee out like a dog, Hugh! " 

' Hugh said nothing, but I heard his teeth 
grind, and I bade De Aquila, ray own over- 
lord, hold his peace, or I would stuff his words 
down his throat. Then De Aquila laughed 
till the tears ran down his face. 

“‘I warned the King, ” said he, “ what would 
come of giving England to us Norman thieves. 
Here art thou, Richard, less than two days 
confirmed in thy Manor, and already thou 
hast risen against thy overlord. What shall 
do to him, Sir Hugh? ” 

‘ “ T am a swordless man, ” said Hugh. “ Do 
not jest with me, ” and he laid his head on his 
knees and groaned. 

“‘The greater fool thou,” said De Aquila, 
and all his voice changed; “for I have given 
thee the Manor of Dallington up the hill this 
half-hour since, ” and he yerked at Hugh 
with his scabbard across the straw. 

‘“To me?” said Hugh. “I am a Saxon, 
and, except that I love Richard here, I have 
not sworn fealty to any Norman. ” 

‘ “ In God’s good time, which because of my 
sins I shall not live to see, there will be neither 
Saxon nor Norman in England, ” said De 
Aquila. “If I know men, thou art more 
faithful unsworn than a score of Normans 
I could name. Take Dallington, and join 
Sir Richard to fight me to-morrow, if it please 
thee! ” 

‘ “ Nay, ” said Hugh. “ I am no child. 
Where I take a gift, there I render service ”; 
and he put his hands between De Aquila’s^ 



52 


PUCK OF POOK’S HILL 


and swore to be faithful, and, as I remember, 
I kissed him, and De Aquila kissed us both. 

‘ We sat afterwards outside the hut while the 
sun rose, and De Aquila marked our churls 
going to their work in the fields, and talked of 
holy things, and how we should govern our 
Manors in time to come, and of hunting and of 
horse-breeding, and of the King’s wisdom 
and unwisdom; for he spoke to us as though 
we were in all sorts now his brothers. Anon 
a churl stole up to me—he was one of the 
three I had not hanged a year ago—and he 
bellowed—which is the Saxon for whispering 
—that the Lady ^lueva would speak to me 
at the Great House. She walked abroad 
daily in the Manor, and it was her custom to 
send me word whither she went, that I might 
set an archer or two behind and in front to 
guard her. Very often I myself lay up in the 
woods and watched on her also. 

‘ I went swiftly, and as I passed the great door 
it opened from within, and there stood my 
Lady ^lueva, and she said to me: “Sir 
Richard, will it please you enter your Great 
Hall?” Then she wept, but we were alone. ’ 

The knight was silent for a long time, his 
face turned across the valley, smiling. 

‘ Oh, well done! ’said Una, and clapped her 
hands very softly. ‘ She was sorry, and she 
said so. ’ 

‘Aye, she was sorry, and she said so,’ said 
Sir Richard, coming back with a little start. 
‘Very soon—but he said it was two full hours 
later—De Aquila rode to the door, with his 
shield new scoured (Hugh had cleansed it). 


YOUNG MEN AT THE MANOR 53 

and demanded entertainment, and called me 
a false knight, that would starve his overlord 
to death. Then Hugh cried out that no man 
should work in the valley that day, and our 
Saxons blew horns, and set about feasting and 
drinking, and running of races, and dancing 
and singing; and De Aquila climbed upon a 
horse-block and spoke to them in what he 
swore was good Saxon, but no man under¬ 
stood it. At night we feasted in the Great 
Hall, and w’hen the harpers and the singers 
were gone we four sat late at the high table. 
As I remember, it was a warm night with a 
full moon, and De Aquila bade Hugh take 
down his sword from the wall again, for the 
honour of the Manor of Dallington, and Hugh 
took it gladly enough. Dust lay on the hilt, 
for I saw him blow it off. 

' She and I sat talking a little apart, and at 
first we thought the harpers had come back, 
for the Great Hall was filled with a rushing 
noise of music. De Aquila leaped up; but 
there was only the moonlight fretty on the 
floor. 

‘ “ Hearken! ” said Hugh. “ It is my sword,"' 
and as he belted it on the music ceased. 

‘ “ Over Gods, forbid that I should ever belt 
blade like that, ” said De Aquila. “ What 
does it foretell?” 

‘ “ The Gods that made it may know. Last 
time it spoke was at Hastings, when I lost 
all my lands. Belike it sings now that I have 
new lands and am a man again, ” said Hugh. 

‘ He loosed the blade a little and drove it 
back happily into the sheath, and the sword 


54 


PUCK OF POOR’S HILL 


answered him low and crooningly, as—^as a 
woman would speak to a man, her head on his 
shoulder. 

‘ Now that was the second time in all my life 
I heard this Sword sing.' . . . 

* Look I ’ said Una. ‘ There’s mother coming 
down the Long Slip. What will she say to 
Sir Richard ? She can’t help seeing him. ’ 

‘And Puck can’t magic us this time, ’ said 
Dan. 

‘Are you sure?’ said Puck; and he leaned 
forward and whispered to Sir Richard, who, 
smiling, bowed his head. 

‘ But what befell the sword and my brother 
Hugh I will tell on another time, ’ said he, 
rising. ‘ Oh6, Swallow!' 

The great horse cantered up from the far 
end of the meadow, close to mother. 

They heard mother say: ‘ Children, Gleason’s 
old horse has broken into the meadow again. 
Where did he get through ? ’ 

‘Just below Stone Bay, ’ said Dan. ‘ He 
tore down simple flobs of the bank! We 
noticed it just now. And we’ve caught no 
end of fish. We’ve been at it all the afternoon. ’ 

And they honestly believed that they had. 
They never noticed the Oak, Ash, and Thorn 
leaves that Puck had slyly thrown into their 
laps. 



SIR RICHARD’S SONG 


I followed my Duke ere I was a lover, 

To take from England fief and fee; 

But now this game is the other way over — 
But now England hath taken me! 

I had my horse, my shield and banner. 

And a hoy's heart, so whole and free; 

But now 1 sing in another manner — 

But now England hath taken me I 

As for my Father in his tower, 

Asking news of my ship at sea; 

He will remember his own hour — 

Tell him England hath taken me! 

As for my Mother in her bower, 

That rules my Father so cunningly; 

She will remember a maiden's power — 

Tell her England hath taken me! 

As for my Brother in Rouen city, 

A nimble and naughty page is he; 

But he will come to suffer and pity — 

Tell him England hath taken me! 

As for my little Sister waiting 

In the pleasant orchards of Normandie; 

Tell her youth is the time for mating — 

Tell her England hath taken me! 

55 


56 


PUCK OF POOK’S HILL 


As jot my Comrades in camp and highway, 
That lift their eyebrows scornfully; 

Tell them their way is not my way — 

Tell them England hath taken me! 

Kings and Princes and Barons famed, 
Knights and Captains in your degree; 

Hear me a little before I am blamed — 
Seeing England hath taken me! 

Hcrwso great man's strength be reckoned, 
There are two things he cannot flee; 

Love is the first, and Death is the second — 
And Love, in England, hath taken me! 



THE KNIGHTS OF THE JOYOUS 
VENTURE 


•V 


HARP SONG OF THE DANE WOMEN 


What is a woman that you forsake her, 
And the hearth-fire and the home-acre, 
To go with the old grey Widow-maker f 


She has no house to lay a guest in — 

But one chill bed for all to rest in, 

That the pale suns and the stray bergs nest in^ 


She has no strong white arms to fold you, 

But the ten-times-fingering weed to hold you 
Bound on the rocks where the tide has rolled you^ 


Yet, when the signs of summer thicken. 

And the ice breaks, and the birch-buds quicken, 
Yearly you turn from our side, and sicken —• 


Sicken again for the shouts and the slaughters. 
You steal away to the lapping waters. 

And look at your ship in her winter quarters. 


You forget our mirth, and talk at the tables. 

The kine in the shed and the horse in the stables —- 
T0 pitch her sides and go over her cables! 

59 


6o 


PUCK OF POOR’S HILL 


Then you drive out where the storm-clouds swallow: 
And the sound of your oar-blades falling hollow, 
Is all we have left through the months to follow! 


Ah, what is Woman that you forsake her. 
And the hearth-fire and the home-acre. 

To go with the old grey Widow-maker? 


THE KNIGHTS OF THE JOYOUS 
VENTURE 


T T WAS too hot to run about in the open, so 
Dan asked their friend, old Hobden, to take 
their own dinghy from the pond and put her 
on the brook at the bottom of the garden. Her 
painted name was the Daisy, but for explor¬ 
ing expeditions she was the Golden Hind or 
the Long Serpent, or some such suitable name. 
Dan hiked and howked with a boat-hook 
(the brook was too narrow for sculls), and 
Una punted with a piece of hop-pole. When 
they came to a very shallow place (the Golden 
Hind drew quite three inches of water) they 
disembarked and scuffled her over the gravel by 
her tow-rope, and when they reached the over¬ 
grown banks beyond the garden they pulled 
themselves up stream by the low branches. 

That day they intended to discover the 
North Cape like ‘Othere, the old sea-captain,' 
in the book of verses which Una had brought 
with her; but on account of the heat they 
changed it to a voyage up the Amazon and 
the sources of the Nile. Even on the shaded 
water the air was hot and heavy with drowsy 
scents, while outside, through breaks in the 
trees, the sunshine burned the pasture like fire. 
The kingfisher was asleep on his watching- 
branch, and the blackbirds scarcely took 
the trouble to dive into the next bush. 


62 


PUCK OF POOR’S HILL 


Dragon-flies wheeling and clashing were the 
only things at work, except the moor-hens 
and a big Red Admiral who flapped down out 
of the sunshine for a drink. 

When they reached Otter Pool the Golden 
Hind grounded comfortably on a shallow, 
and they lay beneath a roof of close green, 
watching the water trickle over the flood¬ 
gates down the mossy brick chute from the 
mill-stream to the brook. A big trout—the 
children knew him well—rolled head and 
shoulders at some fly that sailed round the 
bend, while once in just so often the brook 
rose a fraction of an inch against all the wet 
pebbles, and they watched the slow draw and 
shiver of a breath of air through the tree-tops. 
Then the little voices of the slipping water 
began again. 

‘It’s like the shadows talking, isn’t it?’ 
•said Una. She had given up trying to read. 
Dan lay over the bows, trailing his hands in 
the current. They heard feet on the gravel- 
bar that runs half across the pool and saw Sir 
Richard Dalyngridge standing over them. 

‘ Was yours a dangerous voyage?’ he asked, 
smiling. 

‘ She bumped a lot, sir,’ said Dan. ‘There’s 
hardly any water this summer.’ 

‘ Ah, the brook was deeper and wider when 
my children played at Danish pirates. Are 
you pirate-folk?” 

‘Oh, no. We gave up being pirates years 
ago,’ explained Una. ‘We’re nearly always 
explorers now. Sailing round the world, you 
know.’ 


THE JOYOUS VENTURE 


63 

* Round ?' said Sir Richard. He sat him in 
the comfortable crotch of the old ash-root on 
the bank. ‘How can it be round?’ 

‘ Wasn’t it in your books? ’ Dan suggested. 
He had been doing geography at his last 
lesson. 

‘I can neither write nor read/ he replied. 
‘Canst thou read, child?’ 

‘Yes,’ said Dan, ‘barring the very long 
words.’ 

‘ Wonderful! Read to me, that I may heai 
for myself.’ 

Dan flushed, but opened the book and 
began—gabbling a little—at ‘ The Discoverer 
of the North Cape.’ 

* Othere, the old sea captain, 

Who dwelt in Helgoland, 

To Alfred, lover of truth, 

Brought a snow-white walrus tooth. 

That he held in his right hand.’ 

‘But—but—this I know! This is an old 
song! This I have heard sung! This is a 
miracle,’ Sir Richard interrupted. ‘Nay, do 
not stop!’ He leaned forward, and the 
shadows of the leaves slipped and slid upon 
his chain-mail. 

* I ploughed the land with horses, 

But my heart was ill at ease. 

For the old sea-faring men 
Came to me now and then 
With their Sagas of the Seas.’ 

His hand fell on the hilt of the great sword. 

‘ This is truth,’ he cried, ‘ for so did it happen to 


64 


PUCK OF POOK’S HILL 


me,’ and he beat time aelightedly to the 
tramp of verse after verse. 

" “ And now the land,” said Othere, 

” Bent southward suddenly, 

And I followed the curving shore. 

And ever southward bore 
Into a nameless sea.” ’ 

‘A nameless sea!’ he repeated. * So did I— 
so did Hugh and I.’ 

'Where did you go? Tell us,’ said Una. 

'Wait. Let me hear all first.’ So Dan read 
to the poem’s very end. 

'Good,’ said the knight. ' That is Othere’s 
tale—even as I have heard the men in the 
Dane ships sing it. Not in those same valiant 
words, but something like to them.’ 

'Have you ever explored North?’ Dan 
shut the book. 

'Nay. My venture was South. Farther 
South than any man has fared, Hugh and I 
went down with Witta and his heathen.’ He 
jerked the tall sword forward, and leaned on 
it with both hands; but his eyes looked long 
past them. 

‘ I thought you always lived here,’ said Una. 
timidly. 

'Yes while my Lady .^lueva lived. But 
she died. She died. Then, my eldest son 
being a man, I asked De Aquila’s leave that 
he should hold the Manor while I went on 
some journey or pilgrimage—to forget. De 
Aquila, whom the Second William had made 
Warden of Pevensey in Earl Mortain’s place, 
was very old then, but still he rode his tall, 


THE JOYOUS VENTURE 


65 


roan horses, and in the saddle he looked like 
a little white falcon. When Hugh, at Dal- 
lington over yonder, heard what I did, he sent 
for my second son, whom being unmarried he 
had ever looked upon as his own child, and, 
by De Aquila’s leave, gave him the Manor of 
Dallington to hold till he should return. Then 
Hugh came with me.’ 

‘When did this happen?’ said Dan. 

‘ That I can answer to the very day, for as 
we rode with De Aquila by Pevensey—have 
I said that he was Lord of Pevensey and of 
the Honour of the Eagle?—to the Bordeaux 
ship that fetched him his wines yearly out of 
France, a Marsh man ran to us crying that he 
had seen a great black goat which bore on his 
back the body of the King, and that the goat 
had spoken to him. On that same day Red 
William our King, the Conqueror’s son, died 
of a secret arrow while he hunted in a forest. 
“This is a cross matter,” said De Aquila, 
“ to meet on the threshold of a journey. If 
Red William be dead I may have to fight for 
my lands. Wait a little.” 

‘ My Lady being dead, I cared nothing for 
signs and omens, nor Hugh either. We took 
that wine-ship to go to Bordeaux; but the 
wind failed while we were yet in sight of 
Pevensey; a thick mist hid us, and we drifted 
with the tide along the cliffs to the west. 
Our company was, for the most part, mer¬ 
chants returning to France, and we were laden 
with wool and there were three couple of tall 
hunting-dogs chained to the rail. Their mas¬ 
ter was a knight of Artois. His name I never 


66 


PUCK OF POOK’S HILL 


learned, but his shield bore gold pieces on a 
red ground, and he limped much as I do, from 
a wound which he had got in his youth at 
Mantes siege. He served the Duke of Bur¬ 
gundy against the Moors in Spain, and was 
returning to that war with his dogs. He 
sang us strange Moorish songs that first night, 
and half persuaded us to go with him. I was 
on pilgrimage to forget—which is what no 
pilgrimage brings. I think I would have gone, 
but . . . 

‘ Look you how the life and fortune of man 
changes! Towards morning a Dane ship, row¬ 
ing silently, struck against us in the mist, 
and while we rolled hither and yon Hugh, 
leaning over the rail, fell outboard. I leaped 
after him, and we two tumbled aboard the 
Dane, and were caught and bound ere we 
could rise. Our own ship was swallowed up 
in the mist. I judge the Knight of the Gold 
Pieces muzzled his dogs with his cloak, lest 
they should give tongue and betray the mer¬ 
chants, for I heard their baying suddenly stop. 

‘We lay bound among the benches till 
morning, when the Danes dragged us to the 
high deck by the steering-place, and their cap¬ 
tain—Witta, he was called—turned us over 
with his foot. Bracelets of gold from elbow 
to armpit he wore, and his red hair was long 
as a woman’s, and came down in plaited locks 
on his shoulder. He was stout, with .bowed 
legs and long arms. He spoiled us of all we 
had, but when he laid hand on Hugh’s sword 
and saw the runes on the blade hastily he 
thrust it back. Yet his covetousness over- 


THE JOYOUS VENTURE 67 

came him and he tried again and again, and 
the third time the Sword sang loud and 
angrily, so that the rowers leaned on their 
oars to listen. Here they all spoke together, 
screaming like gulls, and a Yellow Man, such 
as I have never seen, came to the high deck 
and cut our bonds. He was yellow—not 
from sickness, but by nature. Yellow as 
honey, and his eyes stood endwise in his head.' 

‘How do you mean?’ said Una, her chin on 
her hand. 

‘Thus,’ said Sir Richard. He put a finger 
to the comer of each eye, and pushed it up 
till his eyes narrowed to slits. 

‘ Why, you look just like a Chinaman! ’ cried 
Dan. ‘Was the man a Chinaman?’ 

‘ I know not what that may be. Witta had 
found him half dead among ice on the shores 
of Muscovy. We thought he was a devil. 
He crawled before us and brought food in a 
silver dish which these sea-wolves had robbed 
from some rich abbey, and Witta with his 
own hands gave us wine. He spoke a little 
in French, a little in South Saxon, and much 
in the Northman’s tongue. We asked him 
to set us ashore, promising to pay him better 
ransom than he would get price if he sold us 
to the Moors—as once befell a knight of my 
acquaintance sailing from Flushing. 

‘“Not by my father Guthrum’s head," 
said he. “ The Gods sent ye into my ship for 
a luck-offering.’’ 

‘At this I quaked, for I knew it was still the 
Dane’s custom to sacrifice captives to their 
gods for fair weather. 


68 


PUCK OF POOK’S HILL 


‘ “A plague on thy four long bones!’* 
said Hugh. “What profit canst thou make 
of poor old pilgrims that can neither work 
nor fight?” 

‘ “ Gods forbid I should fight against thee, 
poor Pilgrim with the Singing Sword,” said 
said he. “ Come with us and be poor no more. 
Thy teeth are far apart, which is a sure sign 
thou wilt travel and grow rich.” 

‘ “What if we will not come?” said Hugh. 

‘ “ Swim to England or France,” said Witta. 
“We are midway between the two. Unless 
ye choose to drown yourselves no hair of your 
head will be harmed here aboard. We think 
ye bring us luck, and I myself know the runes 
on that Sword are good.” He turned and 
bade them hoist sail. 

‘Hereafter all made way for us as we 
walked about the ship, and the ship was full 
of wonders.’ 

‘What was she like?’ said Dan. 

‘ Long, low, and narrow, bearing one mast 
with a red sail, and rowed by fifteen oars 
a side,’ the knight answered. ‘At her bows 
was a deck under which men might lie, 
and at her stem another shut off by a painted 
door from the rowers’ benches. Here Hugh 
and I slept, with Witta and the Yellow Man, 
upon tapestries as soft as wool. I remember ’ 
— he laughed to himself — ‘ when first we 
entered there a loud voice cried, “Out swords! 
Out swords! Kill, kill!’ Seeing us start 
Witta laughed, and showed us it was but a 
great-beaked grey bird with a red tail. He 
sat her on his shoulder, and she called for 


THE JOYOUS VENTURE 


69 


bread and wine hoarsely, and prayed him to 
kiss her. Yet she was no more than a silly 
bird. But—ye knew this?' He looked at 
their smiling faces. 

‘We weren’t laughing at you,’ said Una. 
‘ That must have been a parrot. It’s just what 
Pollies do.’ 

‘ So we learned later. But here is another 
marvel. The Yellow Man, whose name was 
Kitai, had with him a brown box. In the box 
was a blue bowl with red marks upon the rim, 
and within the bowl, hanging from a fine 
thread, was a piece of iron no thicker than 
that grass stem, and as long, maybe, as my 
spur, but straight. In this iron, said Witta, 
abode an Evil Spirit which Kitai the Yellow 
Man, had brought by Art Magic out of his own 
country that lay three years’ journey south¬ 
ward. The Evil Spirit strove day and night 
to return to his country, and therefore, look 
you, the iron needle pointed continually to 
the South.’ 

‘South?’ said Dan, suddenly, and put his 
hand into his pocket. 

‘ With my own eyes I saw it. Every day 
and all day long, though the ship rolled, 
though the sun and the moon and the stars 
were hid, this blind Spirit in the iron knew 
whither it would go, and strained to the 
South. Witta called it the Wise Iron, be¬ 
cause it showed him his way across the un¬ 
knowable seas.’ Again Sir Richard looked 
keenly at the children. ‘How think ye? 
Was it sorcery? ’ 

‘Was it anything like this?’ Dan fished 


70 


PUCK OF POOR’S HILL 


out his old brass pocket-compass, that gen¬ 
erally lived with his knife and key-ring. ‘ The 
glass has got cracked, but the needle waggles 
all right, sir.’ 

The knight drew a long breath of wonder. 
'Yes, yes. The Wise Iron shook and swung 
in just this fashion. Now it is still. Now 
it points to the South.’ 

‘North,’ said Dan. 

‘Nay, South! There is the South,’ said Sir 
Richard. Then they both laughed, for natur¬ 
ally when one end of a straight compass- 
needle points to the North, the other must 
point to the South. 

‘T6,’ said Sir Richard, clicking his tongue. 
‘ There can be no sorcery if a child carries it. 
Wherefore does it point South—or North?' 

‘ Father says that nobody knows,’ said Una. 

Sir Richard looked relieved. ‘ Then it may 
still be magic. It was magic to And so 
we voyaged. When the wind served we 
hoisted sail, and lay all up along the windward 
rail, our shields on our backs to break the 
spray. When it failed, they rowed with long 
oars; the Yellow Man sat by the Wise Iron, 
and Witta steered. At first I feared the great 
white-flowering waves, but as I saw how 
wisely Witta led his ship among them I grew 
bolder. Hugh liked it well from the first. 
My skill is not upon the water; and rocks, 
and whirlpools such as we saw by the West 
Isles of France, where an oar caught on a rock 
and broke, are much against my stomach. 
We sailed South across a stormy sea, where by 
moonlight, between clouds, we saw a Flanders 


THE JOYOUS VENTURE 


71 


ship roll clean over and sink. Again, though 
Hugh laboured with Witta all night, I lay 
under the deck with the Talking Bird, and 
cared not whether I lived or died. There is a 
sickness of the sea which, for three days, is 
pure death! When we next saw land Witta 
said it was Spain, and we stood out to sea. 
That coast was full of ships busy in the Duke’s 
war against the Moors, and we feared to be 
hanged by the Duke’s men or sold into slavery 
by the Moors. So we put into a small harbour 
which Witta knew. At night men came down 
with loaded mules, and Witta exchanged am¬ 
ber out of the North against little wedges of 
iron and packets of beads in earthen pots. 
The pots he put under the decks, and the 
wedges of iron he laid on the bottom of the 
ship after he had cast out the stones and shingle 
which till then had been our ballast. Wine, 
too, he bought for lumps of sweet-smelling 
grey amber—a little morsel no bigger than a 
thumbnail purchased a cask of wine. But 
I speak like a merchant.’ 

‘No, no! Tell us what you had to eat,’ 
cried Dan. 

‘ Meat dried in the sun, and dried fish and 
ground beans, Witta took in; and corded 
frails of a certain sweet, soft fruit, which the 
Moors use, which is like paste of figs, but with 
thin, long stones. Aha! Dates is the name. 

‘“Now,” said Witta, when the ship was 
loaded, “ I counsel you strangers, to pray to 
your gods, for from here on our road is No 
Man’s road.” He and his men killed a black 
goat for sacrifice on the bows; and the Yellow 


72 


PUCK OF POOR’S FULL 


Man brought out a small, smiling image of 
dull-green glass and burned incense before it. 
Hugh and I commended ourselves to God, 
and Saint Bartholomew, and Our Lady of 
the Assumption, who was specially dear to 
my Lady. We were not young, but I think 
no shame to say, when as we drove out of that 
secret harbour at sunrise over a still sea, we 
two rejoiced and sang as did the knights of 
old when they followed our great Duke to 
England. Yet was our leader an heathen 
pirate; all our proud fleet but one galley 
perilously overloaded; for guidance we leaned 
on a pagan sorcerer; and our port was beyond 
the world’s end. Witta told us that his 
father Guthnmi had once in his life rowed 
along the shores of Africa to a land where 
naked men sold gold for iron and beads. 
There had he bought much gold, and no few 
elephants’ teeth, and thither by help of the 
Wise Iron would Witta go. Witta feared 
nothing—except to be poor. 

‘ “My father told me,” said Witta, “that a 
great Shoal runs three days’ sail out from that 
land, and south of the shoal lies a Forest 
which grows in the sea. South and east of the 
Forest my father came to a place where the 
men hid gold in their hair; but all that coun¬ 
try, he said, was full of Devils who lived in 
trees, and tore folk limb from limb. How 
think ye?” 

‘“Gold or no gold,” said Hugh, fingering 
his sword, “it is a joyous venture. Have at 
these devils of thine, Witta!” 

‘“Venture!” said Witta, sourly. “I am 


THE JOYOUS VENTURE 


73 


only a poor sea-thief. I do not set my life 
adrift on a plank for joy, or the venture. 
Once I beach ship again at Stavanger, and 
feel the wife’s arms round my neck, I’ll seek 
no more ventures. A ship is heavier care than 
a wife or cattle.” 

‘ He leaped down among the rowers, chiding 
them for their little strength and their great 
stomachs. Yet Witta was a wolf in fight, and 
a very fox in cunning. 

‘We were driven South by a storm, and for 
three days and three nights he took the stern- 
oar and threddled the longship through the 
sea. When it rose beyond measure he brake 
a pot of whale’s oil upon the water, which 
wonderfully smoothed it, and in that anointed 
patch he turned her head to the wind and 
threw out oars at the end of a rope, to make, 
he said, an anchor at which we lay rolling 
sorely, but dry. This craft his father Guth- 
rum had shown him. He knew, too, all the 
Leech-Book of Bald, who was a wise doctor, 
and he knew the Ship-Book of Hlaf the 
Woman, who robbed Egypt. He knew all 
the care of a ship. 

‘ After the storm we saw a mountain whose 
top was covered with snow and pierced the 
clouds. The grasses under this mountain, 
boiled and eaten, are a good cure for soreness 
of the gums and swelled ankles. We lay 
there eight days, till men in skins threw stones 
at us. When the heat increased Witta spread 
a cloth on bent sticks above the rowers, for 
the wind failed between the Island of the 
Mountain and the shore of Africa, which is 


74 


PUCK OF POOK’S HILL 


east of it. That shore is sandy, and we rowed 
along it within three bowshots. Plere we 
saw whales, and fish in the shape of shields, 
but longer than our ship. Some slept, some 
opened their mouths at us, and some danced 
on the hot waters. The water was hot to the 
hand, and the sky was hidden by hot, grey 
mists, out of which blew a fine dust that 
whitened our hair and beards of a morning. 
Here, too, were fish that flew in the air like 
birds. They would fall on the laps of the 
rowers, and when we went ashore we would 
roast and eat them.' 

The knight paused to see if the children 
doubted him, but they only nodded and said, 
‘Go on.' 

‘ The yellow land lay on our left, the grey 
sea on our right. Knight though I was, I 
pulled my oar amongst the rowers. I caught 
seaweed and dried it, and stuffed it between 
the pots of beads lest they should break. 
Knighthood is for the land. At sea, look you, a 
man is but a spurless rider on a bridleless horse. 
I learned to make strong knots in ropes— 
yes, and to join two ropes end to end, so that 
even Witt a could scarcely see where they had 
been married. But Hugh had tenfold more 
sea-cunning than I. Witta gave him charge 
of the rowers of the left side. Thorkild of 
Borkum, a man with a broken nose, that 
wore a Norman steel cap, had the rowers of 
the right, and each side rowed and sang against 
the other. They saw that no man was idle. 
Truly, as Hugh said, and Witta would laugh 
at him, a ship is all more care than a Manor. 


THE JOYOUS VENTURE 7 5 

*How? Thus. There was water to fetch 
from the shore when we could find it, as well 
as wild fruit and grasses, and sand for scrub¬ 
bing of the decks and benches to keep them 
sweet. Also we hauled the ship out on low 
islands and emptied all her gear, even to the 
iron wedges, and burned off the weed, that 
had grown on her, with torches of rush, 
and smoked below the decks with rushes 
dampened in salt water, as Hlaf the Woman 
orders in her Ship-Book. Once when we 
were thus stripped, and the ship lay 
propped on her keel, the bird cried, 
“ Out swords ! ” as though she saw an 
enemy. Witt a vowed he would wring her 
neck.’ 

‘ Poor Polly! Did he? ’ said Una. 

‘ Nay. She was the ship’s bird. She could 
call all the rowers by name. . . . Those 

were good days—for a wifeless man—^with 
Witt a and his heathen—beyond the world’s end. 

. . . Aftermany weeks we came on the Great 
Shoal which stretched, as Witta’s father had 
said, far out to sea. We skirted it till we were 
giddy with the sight and dizzy with the sound 
of bars and breakers; and when we reached 
land again we found a naked black people 
dwelling among woods, who for one wedge of 
iron loaded us with fruits and grasses and 
eggs. Witta scratched his head at them in- 
sign he would buy gold. They had no gold, 
but they understood the sign (all the gold- 
traders hide their gold in their thick hair), 
for they pointed along the coast. They beat, 
too, on their chests with their clenched hands» 


76 PUCK OF POOK’S HILL 

and that, if we had known it, was an evd 
sign. ^ _ 

y. ‘ What did it mean ? ’ said Dan. 

"Patience. Ye shall hear. We followed 
the coast eastward sixteen days (counting 
time by sword-cuts on the helm-rail) till we 
came to the Forest in the Sea. Trees grew 
out of mud, arched upon lean and high roots, 
and many muddy water-ways ran aliwhither 
into darkness under the trees. Here we lost 
the sun. We followed the winding channels 
between the trees, and where where we could 
not row we laid hold of the crusted roots and 
hauled ourselves along. The water was foul, 
and great glittering flies tormented us. Mor¬ 
ning and evening a blue mist covered the 
mud, which bred fevers. Four of our rowers 
sickened, and were bound to their benches, 
lest they should leap overboard and be eaten 
by the monsters of the mud. The Yellow 
Man lay sick beside the Wise Iron, rolling his 
head and talking in his own tongue. Only 
the Bird throve. She sat on Witta’s shoulder 
and screamed in that noisome, silent darkness. 
Yes; I think it was the silence we feared.’ 

He paused to listen to the comfortable home 
noises of the brook. 

‘When we had lost count of time among 
those black gullies and swashes, we heard, as it 
were, a drum beat far off, and following it 
we broke into a broad, brown river by a hut 
in a clearing among fields of pumkins. We 
thanked God to see the sun again. The people 
of the village gave the good welcome, and 
Witta scratched his head at them (for gold), 


THE JOYOUS VENTURE 


77 


and showed them our iron and beads. They 
ran to the bank—^we were still in the ship—and 
pointed to our swords and bows, for always 
when near shore we lay armed. Soon they 
fetched store of gold in bars and in dust from 
their huts, and some great blackened elephant 
teeth. These they piled on the bank, as though 
to tempt us, and made signs of dealing blows 
in battle, and pointed up to the tree tops, and 
to the forest behind. Their captain or chief 
sorcerer then beat on his chest with his fists, 
and gnashed his teeth. 

‘ Said Thorkild of Borkum: “ Do they mean 
we must fight for all this gear?” and he half 
drew his sword. 

‘“Nay,” said Hugh. “I think they ask 
us to league against some enemy. ” 

“‘I like this not, ” said Witta, of a sudden. 
“ Back into midstream. ” 

‘ So we did, and sat still all, watching the 
black folk and the gold they piled on the bank. 
Again we heard drums beat in the forest, and 
the people fled to their huts, leaving the 
gold unguarded. 

‘ Then Hugh, at the bows, pointed without 
speech, and we saw a great Devil come out 
of the forest. He shaded his brows with 
his hand, and moistened his pink tongue 
between his lips—thus. ’ 

‘A Devil!’ said Dan, delightfully horrified. 
‘Yea. Taller than a man; covered with 
reddish hair. When he had well regarded 
our ship, he beat on his chest with his fists till 
it sounded like rolling drums, and came to the 
bank swinging all his body between his long 


78 


PUCK OF POOR’S HILL 


arms, and gnashed his teeth at us. Hugh 
loosed arrow, and pierced him through the 
throat. He fell roaring, and three other 
Devils ran out of the forest and hauled him 
into a tall tree out of sight. Anon they cast 
down the blood-stained arrow, and lamented 
together among the leaves. Witt a saw the 
gold on the bank; he was loath to leave it. 
“ Sirs, ” said he (no man had spoken till then), 
“ yonder is that we have come so far and so 
painfully to find, laid out to our very hand. 
Let us row in while these Devils bewail them¬ 
selves, and at least bear off what we may. ” 

‘Bold as a wolf, cunning as a fox was Witta! 
He set four archers on the foredeck to shoot 
the Devils if they should leap from the tree, 
which was close to the bank. He manned 
ten oars a side, and bade them watch his hand 
to row in or back out, and so coaxed he them 
toward the bank. But none would set foot 
ashore, though the gold was within ten paces. 
No man is hasty to his hanging. They whim¬ 
pered at their oars like beaten hounds, and 
Witta bit his fingers for rage. 

‘Said Hugh of a sudden, “Hark!” At 
first we thought it was the buzzing of the 
glittering flies on the water, but it grew loud 
and fierce, so that all men heard. ’ 

‘ What ? ’ said Dan and Una. 

‘It was the sword.’ Sir Richard patted 
the smooth hilt. ‘It sang as a Dane sings 
before battle. “I go,” said Hugh, and he 
leaped from the bow’s and fell among the gold. 
I was afraid to my four bones’ marrow, but 
for shame’s sake I followed, and Thorkild of 


THE JOYOUS VENTURE 


79 


Borkum leaped after me. None other came. 
“Blame me not,” cried Witta behind us, 
“ I must abide by my ship. ” We three had 
no time to blame or praise. We stooped 
to the gold and threw it back over our 
shoulders, one hand on our swords and one 
eye on the tree, which nigh overhung us. 

‘ I know not how the Devils leaped down, or 
how the fight began. I heard Hugh cry: “ Out! 
out!” as though he were at Santlache again; 
I saw Thorkild’s steel cap smitten off his head 
by a great hairy hand, and I felt an arrow 
from the ship whistle past my ear. They say 
that till Witta took his sword to the rowers he 
could not bring his ship in shore; and each 
one of the four archers said afterwards that 
he alone had pierced the Devil that fought me. 
I do not know. I went to it in my mail-shirt, 
which saved my skin. With long-sword and 
belt-dagger I fought for the life against a 
Devil whose very feet were hands, and who 
whirled me back and forth like a dead branch. 
He had me by the waist, my arms to my side, 
when an arrow from the ship pierced him 
between the shoulders, and he loosened grip. 
I passed my sword twice through him, and 
he crutched himself away between his long 
arms, coughing and moaning. Next, as I 
remember, I saw Thorkild of Borkum bare¬ 
headed and smiling, leaping up and down 
before a Devil that leaped and gnashed his 
teeth. Then Hugh passed, his sword shifted 
to his left hand, and I wondered why I had 
not known that Hugh was a left-handed man; 
and thereafter I remembered nothing till I 


So 


PUCK OF POOR’S HILL 


felt spray on my face, and we were in sun¬ 
shine on the open sea. That was twenty days 
after.’ 

‘What had happened? Did Hugh die?’ 
the children asked. 

‘ Never was such a fight fought by christened 
man,’ said Sir Richard. ‘An arrow from the 
ship had saved me from my Devil, and Thor- 
kild of Borkum had given back before his 
Devil, till the bowmen on the ship could 
shoot it all full of arrows from near by; but 
Hugh’s Devil was cunning, and had kept 
behind trees, where no arrow could reach. 
Body to body there, by stark strength of 
sword and hand, had Hugh slain him, and, 
dying, the Thing had clenched his teeth on 
the sword. Judge what teeth they were!’ 

Sir Richard turned the sword again that the 
children might see the two great chiselled 
gouges on either side of the blade. 

‘ Those same teeth met in Hugh’s right arm 
and side,’ Sir Richard went on. ‘I? Oh, I 
had no mxore than a broken foot and a fever. 
Thorkild’s ear was bitten, but Plugh’s arm 
and side clean withered av/ay. I saw him 
where he lay along, sucking a fruit in his left 
hand. His flesh was wasted off his bones, 
his hair was patched with white, and his hand 
was blue-veined like a woman’s. He put his 
left hand round my neck and whispered, 
“Take my sword. It has been thine since 
Hastings, O, my brother, but I can never hold 
hilt again.” We lay there on the high deck 
talking of Santlache and, I think, of every 
day since Santlache, and it came so that we 


THE JOYOUS VENTURE 


8 r 


both wept. I was weak, and he little more 
than a shadow. 

'“Nay—nay,” said Witta, at the helm- 
rail. “ Gold is a good right arm to any man. 
Look—look at the gold!” He bade Thorkild 
show us the gold and the elephants* teeth, as 
though we had been children. He had 
brought away all the gold on the bank, and 
twice as much more, that the people of the 
village gave him for slaying the Devils. 
They worshipped us as gods, Thorkild told me: 
it was one of their old women healed up 
Hugh’s poor arm.’ 

'How much gold did you get?* asked Dan. 

‘ How can I say? Where we came out with 
wedges of iron under the rowers* feet we re¬ 
turned with wedges of gold hidden beneath 
planks. There was dust of gold in packages 
where we slept; and along the side and cross¬ 
wise under the benches we lashed the black¬ 
ened elephants* teeth. 

"'I had sooner have my right arm,** said 
Hugh, when he had seen all. 

"'Ahai! That was my fault,** said Witta. 
“ I should have taken ransom and landed you 
in France when first you came aboard, ten 
months ago.” 

' “ It is over-late now,** said Hugh, laughing. 

'Witta plucked at his long shoulder-lock. 
'' But think!” said he. “ If I had let ye go— 
which I swear I would never have done, for I 
love ye more than brothers—if I had let ye 
go, by now ye might have been horribly slain 
by some mere Moor in the Duke of Burgundy’s 
war, or ye might have been murdered by 


82 


PUCK OF POOK’S HILL 


land-thieves, or ye might have died of the 
plague at an inn. Think of this and do not 
blame me overmuch, Hugh. See! I will 
only take a half of the gold.” 

‘“I blame thee not at all, Witta,” said 
Hugh. “It was a joyous venture, and we 
thirty-five here have done what never men 
have done. If I live till England, I will 
build me a stout keep over Dallington out of 
my share.” 

‘“I will buy cattle and amber and warm 
red cloth for the wife,” said Witta, “and I 
will hold all the land at the head of Stavanger 
Fiord. Many will fight for me now. But 
first we must turn North, and with this honest 
treasure aboard I pray we meet no pirate 
ships.” 

‘ We did not laugh. We were careful. We 
were afraid lest we should lose one grain of 
our gold for which we had fought Devils. 

‘“Where is the Sorcerer?” said I, for 
Witta was looking at the Wise Iron in the 
box, and I could not see the Yellow Man. 

‘ “ He has gone to his own country,” said he. 
“ He rose up in the night while we were beat¬ 
ing out of that forest in the mud, and said 
that he could see it behind the trees. He 
leaped out on to the mud, and did not answer 
when we called; so we called no more. He 
left the Wise Iron, which is all that I care for 
—arid see, the Spirit still points to the South!” 

' We were troubled for fear that the Wise 
Iron should fail us now that its Yellow Man 
had gone, and when we saw the Spirit still 
served us we grew afraid of too strong winds, 


THE JOYOUS VENTURE 


83 


and of shoals, and of careless leaping fish, 
and of all the people on all the shores where 
we landed.’ 

‘Why?’ said Dan. 

‘Because of the gold—because of our gold. 
Gold changes men altogether. Thorkild of 
Borkum did not change. He laughed at 
Witta for his fears, and at us for cur coun¬ 
selling Witta to furl sail when the ship 
pitched at all. 

‘“Better be drowned out of hand,” said 
Thorkild of Borkum, “ than go tied to a deck¬ 
load of yellow dust.” 

‘ He was a landless man, and had been slave 
to some King in the East. He would have 
beaten out the gold into deep bands to put 
round the oars, and round the prow. 

‘Yet, though he vexed himself for the gold, 
Witta waited upon Hugh like a woman, lend¬ 
ing him his shoulder when the ship rolled, and 
tying of ropes from side to side that Hugh 
might hold by them. But for Hugh, he said 
—and so did all his men—they would never 
have won the gold. I remember Witta made 
a little, thin gold ring for oiu: Bird to swing in. 
Three months we rowed and sailed and 
went ashore for fruits or to clean the ship. 
When we saw wild horsemen, riding among 
sand-dunes, flourishing spears we knew we 
were on the Moors’ coast, and stood over north 
to Spain; and a strong south-west wind bore 
us in ten days to a coast of high red rocks, 
where we heard a hunting-horn blow among 
the yellow gorse and knew it was England. 

‘“Now find ye Pevensey yourselves,” said 


84 PUCK OF POOR’S HILL 

Witta. “I love not these narrow ship-filled 
seas.” 

* He set the dried, salted head of the Devil, 
which Hugh had killed, high on our prow, and 
all boats fled from us. Yet, for our gold’s 
sake, we were more afraid than they. We 
crept along the coast by night till we came to 
the chalk cliffs, and so east to Pevensey. 
Witta would not come ashore with us, though 
Hugh promised him wine at Dallington 
enough to swim in. He was on fire to see his 
wife, and ran into the Marsh after sunset, and 
there he left us and our share of gold, and 
backed out on the same tide. He made no 
promise; he swore no oath; he looked for no 
thanks; but to Hugh, an armless man, and to 
me, an old cripple whom he could have flung 
into the sea, he passed over wedge upon wedge, 
packet upon packet of gold and dust of gold, 
and only ceased when we would take no more. 
As he stooped from the rail to bid us farewell 
he stripped off his right-arm bracelets and put 
them all on Hugh’s left, and he kissed Hugh 
on the cheek. I think when Thorkild of 
Borkum bade the rowers give way we were 
near weeping. It is true that Witta was an 
heathen and a pirate; true it is he held us by 
force many months in his ship, but I loved 
that bow-legged, blue-eyed man for his great 
boldness,' his cunning, his skill, and, beyond 
all, for his simplicity.’ 

* Did he get home all right? ’ said Dan. 

* I never knew. We saw him hoist sail under 
the moon-track and stand away. I have 
prayed that he found his wife and the children,’ 


THE JOYOUS VENTURE 


85 


‘ And what did you do ? * 

'We waited on the Marsh till the day. 
Then I sat by the gold, all tied in an old sail, 
while Hugh went to Pevensey, and De Aquila 
sent us horses.' 

Sir Richard crossed hands on his sword- 
hilt, and stared down stream through the 
soft warm shadows. 

'A whole shipload of gold! said Una, look¬ 
ing at the little Golden Hind. 'But Pm glad 
I didn’t see the Devils.’ 

‘I don’t believe they were Devils,’ Dan 
whispered back. 

'Eh?’ said Sir Richard. 'Witta’s father 
warned him they were unquestionable Devils. 
One must believe one’s father, and not one’s 
children. What were my Devils, then?’ 

Dan flushed all over. ‘I—I only thought, * 
he stammered; T’ve got a book called The 
Gorilla Hunters —it’s a continuation of Coral 
Island, sir—and it says there that the gorillas 
(they’re big monkeys, you know) were always 
chewing iron up. ’ 

'Not always,’ said Una. 'Only twice.’ 
They had been reading The Gorilla Hunters 
in the orchard. 

‘Well, anyhow, they always drummed on 
their chests, like Sir Richard’s did, before 
they went for people. And they built houses 
in trees, too. ’ 

‘ Ha! ’ Sir Richard opened his eyes. ' Houses 
like flat nests did our Devils make, where 
their imps lay and looked at us. I did not 
see them (I was sick after the fight), but 
Witta told me and, lo, ye know it also? Won- 


8o 


PUCK OF POOK b nILL 


derful! Were our Devils only nest-building 
apes? Is there no sorcery left in the world?' 

‘I don’t Icnow,’ answered Dan, uncomfor¬ 
tably. ‘ I’ve seen a man take rabbits out of a 
hat, and he told us we could see how he did 
it, if we watched hard. And we did.’ 

‘But we didn’t,’ said Una sighing ‘Oh! 
there’s Puck!’ 

The little fellow, brown and smiling, peered 
between two stems of an ash, nodded, and slid 
down the bank into the cool beside them. 

‘No sorcery, Sir Richard?’ he laughed, and 
blew on a full dandelion head he had picked. 

‘ They tell me that Witta’s Wise Iron was a 
toy. The boy carries such an Iron with him. 
They tell me our Devils were apes, called 
gorillas! ’ said Sir Richard, indignantly. 

‘That is the sorcery of books,’ said Puck. 
‘ I warned thee they were wise children. All 
people can be wise by reading of books.’ 

‘But are the books true?’ Sir Richard 
frowned. ‘I like not all this reading and 
writing.’ 

‘ Ye-es,’ said Puck, holding the naked dande¬ 
lion head at arm’s length. ‘But if we hang 
all fellows who write falsely, why did De 
Aquila not begin with Gilbert, the Clerk? He 
was false enough. ’ 

‘ Poor false Gilbert. Yet in his fashion, he 
was bold, ’ said Sir Richard. 

‘ What did he do? ’ said Dan. 

‘He wrote,’ said Sir Richard, ‘Is the tale 
meet for children, think you?’ He looked at 
Puck; but, ‘Tell us! Tell us!’ cried Dan and 
Una together. 


THORKILD’S SONG 


There is no wind along these seas^ 

Out oars for Stavanger! 

Forward all for Stavanger! 

So we must wake the white-ash breeze^ 

Let fall for Stavanger! 

A long pull for Stavanger! 

Oh, hear the benches creak and strain! 

(A long pull for Stavanger!) 

She thinks she smells the Northland rain! 
(A long pull for Stavanger!) 

She thinks she smells the Northland snow 
And she's as glad as we to go! 

She thinks she smells the Northland rime^ 
And the dear dark nights of winter-time. 

Her very bolts are sick for shore. 

And we—we want it ten times more! 

Hoe—all you Gods that love brave men^ 
Send us a three-reef gale again! 

Send us a gale, and watch us come. 

With close-cropped canvas slashing horns! 

But— there's no wind in all these seas, 

A long pull for Stavanger! 

So we must wake the white-ash breeze, 

A long pull for Stavanger! 

87 






OLD MEN AT PEVENSEY 


1 



; 


j 





OLD MEN AT PEVENSEY 


TT HAS nought to do with apes or devils,’ 
Sir Richard went on, in an undertone. 
‘It concerns De Aquila, than whom there was 
never bolder nor craftier, nor more hardy 
knight bom. And, remember, he was an old, 
old man at that time.’ 

‘ When?' said Dan. 

‘When we came back from sailing with 
Witta.’ 

‘ What did you do with your gold ? ’ said Dan. 

‘Have patience. Link by link is chains 
mail made. I will tell all in its place. We 
bore the gold to Pevense}^ on horseback—three 
loads of it—and then up to the north chamber, 
above the Great Hall of Pevensey Castle, 
where De Aquila lay in winter. He sat on 
his bed like a little white falcon, turning his 
head swiftly from one to the other as we told 
our tale. Jehan the Crab, an old sour man- 
at-arms, guarded the stairway, but De Aquila 
bade him wait at the stair-foot, and let down 
both leather curtains over the door. It was 
Jehan whom De Aquila had sent to us with 
the horses, and only Jehan had loaded the gold. 
When our story was told, De Aquila gave us 
the news of England, for we were as men 
waked from a year-long sleep. The Red 
King was dead—slain (ye remember?) the 
day we set sail—and Henry, his younger 
91 


92 


PUCK OF POOK’S HILL 


brother, had made himself King of England 
over the head of Robert of Normandy. This 
was the very thing that the Red King had done 
to Robert when our Great William died. Then 
Robert of Normandy, mad, as De Aquila said, 
at twice missing of this kingdom, had sent an 
army against England, which army had been 
well beaten back to their ships at Portsmouth. 
A little earlier, and Witt a’s ship would have 
rowed through them. 

‘ “ And now, ” said De Aquila, “ half the 
great Barons of the north and west are out 
against the King between Salisbury and 
Shrewsbury; and half the other half wait to 
see which way the game shall go. They say 
Henry is overly English for their stomachs, 
because he hath married an English wife and 
she hath coaxed him to give back their old 
laws to our Saxons. (Better ride a horse on 
the bit he knows, I say.) But that is only 
a cloak to their falsehood.'' He cracked his 
finger on the table where the wine was spilt, 
and thus he spoke:— 

‘ “ William crammed us Norman barons 
full of good English acres after Santlache. / 
had my share too, ” he said, and clapped 
Hugh on the shoulder; “but I warned him—■ 
I warned him before Odo rebelled—^that he 
should have bidden the Barons give up their 
lands and lordships in Normandy if they would 
be English lords. Now they are all but. prin¬ 
ces both in England and Normandy—trencher- 
fed hounds, with a foot in one trough and 
both eyes on the other! Robert of Nor¬ 
mandy has sent them word that if they do not 


OLD MEN AT PEVENSEY 


93 


fight for him in England he will sack and harry 
out their lands in Normandy. Therefore 
Clare has risen, Fitz Osborn has risen, Mont¬ 
gomery has risen—whom our First William 
made an English earl. Even D’Arcy is out 
with his men, whose father I remember a 
little hedge-sparrow knight nearby Caen. 
If Henry wins, the Barons can still flee to 
Normandy, where Robert will welcome them. 
If Henry loses, Robert, he says, v/ill give 
them more lands in England. Oh, a pest— 
a pest on Normandy, for she will be our En¬ 
gland’s curse this many a long 3’ear! ” 

‘ “ Amen, ” said Hugh. “ But will the war 
come our ways, think you? ” 

‘“Not from the North,’’said De Aquila. 
“ But the sea is always open. If the Barons 
gain the upper hand Robert will send another 
army into England for sure; and this time I 
think he will land here—where his father, the 
Conqueror, landed. Ye have brought your 
pigs to a pretty market! Half England alight, 
and gold enough on the ground ”—he stamped 
on the bars beneath the table—“ to set every 
sword in Christendom fighting. ” 

‘ “ What is to do? ” said Hugh. “ I have no 
keep at Dallington; and if we buried it, whom 
could we trust?” 

‘ “ Me, ” said De Aquila. “ Pevensey walls 
are strong. No man but Jehan, who is my 
dog, knows what is between them. ” He drew 
a curtain by the shot-window and showed 
us the shaft of a well in the thickness of the 
wall. 

‘ “ I made it for a drinking-well, ” he said„ 


94 


PUCK OF POOR’S HILL 


“but we found salt water, and it rises and 
falls with the tide. Hark!” We heard the 
water whistle and blow at the bottom. “ Will 
it serve?” said he. 

“‘Needs must,” said Hugh. “Our lives 
are in thy hands.” So we lowered all the 
gold down except one small chest of it by De 
Aquila’s bed, which we kept as much for his 
delight in its weight and colour as for any our 
needs. 

‘In the morning, ere we rode to our Manors, 
he said: “I do not say farewell; because ye 
will return and bide here. Not for love nor 
for sorrow, but to be with the gold. Have 
a care,” he said, laughing, “lest I use it to 
make myself Pope. Trust me not,but return!’ ’' 

Sir Richard paused and smiled sadly. 

‘ In seven days, then, we returned from our 
Manors—from the Manors which had been 
ours.’ 

‘And were the children quite well?’ said 
Una. 

‘My sons were young. Land and gover¬ 
nance belong by right to young men. ’ Sir 
Richard was talking to himself. ‘ It would 
have broken their hearts if we had taken back 
our Manors. They made us great welcome, 
but we could see—Hugh and I could see— 
that our day was done. I was a cripple and 
he a one-armed man. No!’ He shook his 
head. ‘ And therefore ’—he raised his voice— 
‘ we rode back to Pevensey. ’ 

‘ I’m sorry, ’ said Una, for the knight 
seemed very sorrowful. 

‘ Little maid, it all passed long ago. They 


OLD MEN AT PEVENSEY 


95 


were ‘young; we were old. We let them 
rule the Manors. ‘‘Aha!” cried De Aquila 
from his shot-window, when we dismounted. 
“Back again to earth, old foxes?” but when 
we were in his chamber above the hall he puts 
his arms about us and says, “Welcome, 
ghosts! Welcome, poor ghosts!”. . . Thus 
it fell out that we were rich beyond belief, 
and lonely. And lonely!' 

‘ What did you do?' said Dan. 

‘We watched for Robert of Normandy,' 
said the knight. ‘ De Aquila was like Witta. 
He suffered no idleness. In fair weather we 
would ride along between Bexlei on the one 
side, to Cuckmere on the other—sometimes 
with hawk, sometimes with hound (there are 
stout hares both on the Marsh and the Down- 
land), but always with an eye to the sea, for 
fear of fleets from Normandy. In foul weather 
he would walk on the top of his tower, frown¬ 
ing against the rain—peering here and pointing 
there. It always vexed him to think how 
Witta’s ship had come and gone without his 
knowledge. When the wind ceased and ships 
anchored, to the wharfs edge he would go 
and, leaning on his sword among the stinking 
fish, would call to the mariners for their news 
from France. His other eye he kept land¬ 
ward for word of Henry's war against the 
Barons. 

‘Many brought him news—jongleurs, har¬ 
pers, pedlars, sutlers, priests, and the like; 
and, though he was secret enough in small 
things, yet, if their news misliked him, then, 
regarding neither time nor place nor people. 


96 


PUCK OF POOK’S HILL 


would he curse our King Henry for a fool or 
a babe. I have heard him cry aloud by the 
fishing-boats: “If I were King of England 
I would do thus and thus ”; and when I rode 
out to see that the warning-beacons were 
laid and dry, he hath often called to me from 
the shot-window: “Look to it, Richard! Do 
not copy our blind King, but see with thine 
own eyes and feel with thine own hands. 

I do not think he knew any sort of fear. And 
so we lived at Pevensey, in the little chamber 
above the Hall. 

‘ One foul night came word that a messenger 
of the King waited below. We were chilled 
after a long riding in the fog towards Bexlei, 
which is an easy place for ships to land. De 
Aquila sent word the man might either eat 
with us or wait till we had fed. Anon Jehan, 
at the stair-head, cried that he had called for 
horse, and was gone. “Pest on him!” said 
De Aquila. “ I have more to do than to 
shiver in the Great Hall for every gadling 
the King sends. Left he no word? ” 

' “ None, ” said Jehan, “ except ”—he had 
been with De Aquila at Santlache—“except 
he said that if an old dog could not learn 
new tricks it was time to sweep out the ken¬ 
nel.” 

‘ “ Oho! ” said De Aquila, rubbing his nose, 
“to whom did he say that?” 

‘ “ To his beard, chiefly, but some to his 
horse’s flank as he was girthing up. I fol¬ 
lowed him out,” said Jehan the Crab. 

‘ “ What was his shield-mark? ” 

‘ “ Gold horseshoes on black,” said the Crab. 


OLD MEN AT PEVENSEY 


97 

*^‘That is one of Fulke’s men,” said De 
Aquila/ 

Puck broke in very gently, ‘Gold horse¬ 
shoes on black is not the Fulkes’ shield. The 
Fulkes' arms are-’ 

The knight waved one hand statelily. 

‘ Thou knowest that evil man’s true name, ’ 
he replied, ‘but I have chosen to call him 
Fulke because I promised him I would not 
tell the story of his wickedness so that any 
man might guess it. I have changed all the 
names in my tale. His children’s children 
may be still alive.’ 

‘True—true,’ said Puck, smiling softly. 
' It is knightly to keep faith—even after a 
thousand years.’ 

Sir Richard bowed a little and went on:—• 

“‘Gold horseshoes on black?” said De 
Aquila.” “ I had heard Fulke had joined the 
Barons, but if this is true our King must be 
of the upper hand. No matter, all Fulkes 
are faithful. Still, I would not have sent the 
man away empty.” 

‘ “ He fed,” said Jehan. “ Gilbert the Clerk 
fetched him meat and wine from the kitchens. 
He ate at Gilbert’s table.” 

‘ This Gilbert was a clerk from Battle Abbey, 
who kept the accounts of the Manor of Peven- 
sey. He was tall and pale-coloured, and 
carried those new-fashioned beads for count¬ 
ing of prayers. They were large brown nuts 
or seeds, and hanging from his girdle with his 
penner and inkhom they clashed when he 
walked. His place was in the great fireplace. 
There was his table of accounts, and there he 



98 


PUCK OF POOR’S HILL 


lay o’ nights. He feared the hounds in the 
Hall that came nosing after bones or to sleep 
on the warm ashes, and would slash at them 
with his beads—like a woman. When De 
Aquila sat in Hall to do justice, take fines, or 
grant lands, Gilbert would so write it in the 
Manor-roll. But it was none of his work to 
feed our guests, or to let them depart with¬ 
out his lord’s knowledge. 

‘ Said De Aquila, after Jehan was gone down 
the stair: “Hugh, hast thou ever told my 
Gilbert thou canst read Latin hand-of-write?” 

‘ “ No,” said Hugh. “ He is no friend to me, 
or to Odo my hound either.” “No matter,” 
said De Aquila. “ Let him never know thou 
canst tell one letter from its fellow, and”— 
here he jerked us in the ribs with his scabbard 
—“watch him both of ye. There be devils 
in Africa, as I have heard, but by the Saints 
there be greater devils in Pevensey!” And 
that was all he would say. 

‘ It chanced, some small while afterwards, a 
Norman man-at-arms would wed a Saxon 
wench of the Manor, and Gilbert (we had 
watched him well since De Aquila spoke) 
doubted whether her folk were free or slave. 
Since De Aquila would give them a field of 
good land, if she were free, the matter came 
up at the justice in Great Hall before De 
Aquila. First the wench’s father spoke; then 
her mother; then all together, till the hall 
rang and the hounds bayed. De Aquila held 
up his hands. “Write her free,” he called to 
Gilbert by the fireplace. “A’ God's Name 
write her free, before she deafens me! Yes, 


OLD MEN AT PEVENSEY 


99 


yes,” he said to the wench that was on her 
knees at him; “thou art Cerdic’s sister, and 
own cousin to the Lady of Mercia, if thou wilt 
be silent. In fifty years there will be neither 
Norman nor Saxon, but all English,” said he, 
“and these are the men that do our work!” 
He clapped the man-at-arms, that was Jehan's 
nephew, on the shouder, and kissed the 
wench, and fretted with his feet among the 
rushes to show it was finished. (The Great 
Hall is always bitter cold.) I stood at his 
side; Hugh was behind Gilbert in the fireplace 
making to play with wise rough Odo. He 
signed to De Aquda, who bade Gilbert mea¬ 
sure the new field for the new couple. Out 
then runs our Gilbert between man and maid, 
his beads clashing at his waist, and the Hall 
being empty, we three sit by the fire. 

‘Said Hugh, leaning down to the hearth¬ 
stones, “ I saw this stone move under Gilbert’s 
foot when Odo snuffed at it. Look 1 ’ De 
Aquila digged in the ashes with his sword; 
the stone tilted; beneath it lay a parchment 
folden, and the writing atop was: “Words 
spoken against the King by our Lord of 
Pevensey—the second part.” 

‘Here was set out (Hugh read it us whisper¬ 
ing) every jest De Aquila had made to us 
touching the King; every time he had called 
out to me from the shot-window, and every 
time he had said what he would do if he were 
King of England. Yes, day by day had his 
daily speech, which he never stinted, been set 
down by Gilbert, tricked out and twisted 
from its true meaning, yet withal so cunningly 


lOO 


PUCK OF POOR’S HILL 


that none could deny who knew him that De 
Aquila had in some sort spoken those words. 
Ye see ? ’ 

Dan and Una nodded. 

‘Yes,’ said Una, gravely. ‘It isn’t what 
you say so much. It’s what you mean when 
you say it. Like calling Dan a beast in 
fun. Only grown-ups don’t always under¬ 
stand. ’ 

‘ “ He hath done this day by day before our 
very face?” said De Aquila. 

‘ “ Nay, hour by hour,” said Hugh. “ When 
De Aquila spoke even now, in the hall, of 
Saxons and Normans, I saw Gilbert write on 
a parchment, which he kept beside the Manor- 
roll, that De Aquila said soon there would be 
no Normans left in England if his men-at- 
arms did their work aright.” 

“‘Bones of the Saints!” said De Aquila. 
“What avail is honour or a sword against a 
pen? Where did Gilbert hide that writing? 
He shall eat it.” 

‘ “ In his breast when he ran out, ” said Hugh. 
“Which made me look to see where he kept 
his finished stuff. When Odo scratched at 
this stone here, I saw his face change. So I 
was sure.” 

‘ “ He is bold, ” said De Aquila. “ Do him 
justice. In his own fashion, my Gilbert is 
bold.” 

‘ “ Overbold,” said Hugh. “ Hearken here,” 
and he read: “Upon the feast of St. Agatha, 
our Lord of Pevensey, lying in his upper 
chamber, being clothed in his second fur gown 
reversed with rabbit-” 


OLD MEN AT PEVENSEY 


lOI 


Pest on him! He is not my tire-woman!'' 
said De Aquila, and Hugh and I laughed. 

‘"‘Reversed with rabbit, seeing a fog over 
the marshes, did wake Sir Richard Dalyn- 
gridge, his drunken cup-mate” (here they 
laughed at me) “ and said, ‘Peer out, old fox, 
for God is on the Duke of Normandy’s side. ’ ” 
“‘So did I. It was a black fog. Robert 
could have landed ten thousand men, and 
we none the wiser. Does he tell how we were 
out all day riding the marsh, and how I near 
perished in a quicksand, and coughed like a 
sick ewe for ten days after? ” cried De Aquila. 

“‘ No, ” said Hugh. “ But here is the 
prayer of Gilbert himself to his master Fulke. ” 
‘“Ah,” said De Aquila. “Well I knew it 
was Fulke. What is the price of my blood? ” 
‘ “ Gilbert prayeth that when our Lord of 
Pevensey is stripped of his lands on this evi¬ 
dence which Gilbert hath, with fear and pains, 
collected-” 

‘ “ Fear and pains is a true word, ” said De 
Aquila, and sucked in his cheeks. “But how 
excellent a weapon is a pen! I must learn 
it.” 

‘ “ He prays that Fulke will advance him 
from his present sendee to that honour in the 
Church which Fulke promised him. And 
lest Fulke should forget, he has written below, 
‘To be Sacristan of Battle.’” 

‘At this De Aquila whistled. “ A man who 
can plot against one lord can plot against 
another. When I am stripped of my lands 
Fulke will whip off my Gilbert’s foolish head. 
None the less Battle needs a new Sacristan. 



102 


PUCK OF POOR’S HILL 


They tell me the Abbot Henry keeps no sort 
of rule there. ” 

‘ “ Let the Abbot wait, ” said Hugh. “ It 
is our heads and our lands that are in danger. 
This parchment is the second part of the tale. 
The first has gone to Fulke, and so to the King, 
who will hold us traitors. ” 

‘“Assuredly,” said De Aquila. “Fulke’s 
man took the first part that evening when 
Gilbert fed him, and our King is so beset by 
his brother and his Barons (small blame, too!) 
that he is mad with mistrust. Fulke has his 
ear, and pours poison into it. Presently the 
King gives him my land and yours. This is 
old, ” and he learned back and yawned. 

‘ “ And thou wilt surrender Pevensey without 
word or blow?” said Hugh. “We Saxons 
will fight your King then. I will go warn my 
nephew at Dallington. Give me a horse!” 

‘ “ Give thee a toy and a rattle. ” said De 
Aquila. “ Put back the parchment, and rake 
over the ashes. If Fulke is given my Pevensey 
which is England’s gate, what will he do with 
it? He is Norman at heart, and his heart is 
in Normandy, where he can kill peasants at 
his pleasure. He will open England’s gate 
to our sleepy Robert, as Odo and Mortain 
tried to do, and then there will be another 
landing and another Santlache. Therefore 
I cannot give up Pevensey. ” 

‘ “ Good, ” said we two. 

‘“Ah, but wait! If my King be made, 
on Gilbert’s evidence, to mistrust me, he will 
send his men against me here, and, while 
we fight, England’s gate is left unguarded. 



OLD MEN AT PEVENSEY 


103 

Who will be the first to come through thereby? 
Even Robert of Normandy. Therefore I 
cannot fight my King. ” He nursed his sword 
—thus. 

' ‘‘ This is saying and unsaying like a Nor¬ 
man,’’ said Hugh. “What of our Manors?’' 

' “ I do not think for myself, ” said De 
Aquila, “ nor for our King, nor for your lands. 
I think for England, for whom neither King 
nor Baron thinks. I am not Norman, Sir 
Richard, nor vSaxon, Sir Hugh. English am I.” 

' “ Saxon, Norman, or English, ” said Hugh, 
“ ouLT lives are thine, however the game goes. 
When do we hang Gilbert? ” 

‘“Never,” said De Aquila. “Who knows 
he may yet be Sacristan of Battle, for, to do 
him justice, he is good writer. Dead men 
make dumb witnesses. Wait. ” 

‘ “ But the King may give Pevensey to 
Fulke. And our Manors go with it, ” said I. 
“ Shall we tell our sons? ” 

‘ “ No. The King will not wake up a hor¬ 
net’s nest in the South till he has smoked out 
the bees in the North. He may hold me a 
traitor; but at least he sees I am not fighting 
against him, and every day that I lie still is 
so much gain to him while he fights the barons. 
If he were wise he would wait till that war 
were over before he made new enemies. But 
I think Fulke will play upon him to send for 
me, and if I do not obey the summons that 
will, to Henry’s mind, be proof of my treason. 
But mere talk, such as Gilbert sends, is no 
proof nowadays. We Barons follow the 
Church, and, like Anselm, we speak what we 


104 


PUCK OF POOK’S HILL 


please. Let us go about our day’s dealings, 
and say naught to Gilbert.” 

‘ “ Then we do nothing?” said Hugh. 

“‘We wait,” said De Aquila. “I am old, 
but still I find that the most grievous work I 
know.” 

‘And so we found it, but in the end De 
Aquila was right. 

‘A little later in the year, armed men rode 
over the hill, the Golden Horseshoes flying 
behind the King’s banner. Said De Aquila, 
at the window of our chamber: “How did I 
tell you? Here comes Fulke himself to spy 
out his new lands which our King hath 
promised him if he can bring proof of my 
treason.” 

‘ “ How dost thou know? ” said Hugh. 

‘ “ Because that is what I would do if I were 
Fulke, but I should have brought more men. 
My roan horse to your old shoes,” said he, 
“ Fulke brings me the King’s Summons to 
leave Pevensey and join the war, ’ ’ He sucked 
in his cheeks and drummed on the edge of the 
shaft, where the water sounded all hollow. 

‘ “ Shall we go ? ” said I. 

‘“Go! At this time of year? Stark mad¬ 
ness,” said he. “Take me from Pevensey to 
fisk and flyte through fern and forest, and in 
three days Robert’s keels would be lying on 
Pevensey mud with ten thousand men! Who 
would stop them—Fulke?” 

‘The horns blew without, and anon Fulke 
cried the King’s Summons at the great door 
that De Aquila with all men and horse should 
join the King’s camp at Salisbury. 


OLD MEN AT PEVENSEY 105 

‘“How did I tell you?” said De Aquila. 
“There are twenty Barons ’twixt here and 
SalisVjury could give King Henry good land- 
service, but he has been worked upon by 
Fulke to send south and call me— me !—off 
the Gate of England, when his enemies stand 
about to batter it in. See that Fulke’s men 
lie in the big south bam,” said he. “Give 
them drink, and when Fulke has eaten we 
will drink in my chamber. The Great Hall 
is too cold for old bones.” 

‘ As soon as he w'as off-horse Fulke went to 
the chapel with Gilbert to give thanks for his 
safe coming, and when he had eaten—he was 
a fat man, and rolled his eyes greedily at our 
good roast Sussex wheatears—we led him to 
the little upper chamber, whither Gilbert had 
already gone with the Manor-roll. I remem¬ 
ber when Fulke heard the tide blow and 
whistle in the shaft he leaped back, and his 
long down-turned stirmp-shoes caught in the 
mshes and he stumbled, so that Jehan behind 
him found it easy to knock his head against 
the wall.’ 

‘Did you know it was going to happen?’ 
said Dan. 

‘Assuredly,’ said Sir Richard, with a sweet 
smile. ‘ I put my foot on his sword and 
plucked away his dagger, but he knew not 
whether it was day or night for a while. He 
lay rolling his eyes and bubbling with his 
mouth, and Jehan roped him like a calf. He 
was cased all in that new-fangled armour 
which we call lizard-mail. Not rings like 
my hauberk here’—Sir Richard tapped his 


io6 PUCK OF POOR’S HILL 

chest—‘but little pieces of dagger-proof steel 
overlapping on stout leather. We stripped 
it off (no need to spoil good harness by wetting 
it), and in the neck-piece De Aquila found the 
same folden piece of parchment which we 
had put back under the hearthstone. 

‘At this Gilbert would have run out. I 
laid my hand on his shoulder. It sufficed. 
He fell to trembling and praying on his 
beads. 

‘“Gilbert,” said De Aquila, “here be more 
notable sayings and doings of our Lord of 
Pevensey for thee to write down. Take 
penner and inkhorn, Gilbert. We cannot 
all be Sacristans of Battle.” 

‘ Said Fulke from the floor, “Ye have bound 
a King’s messenger. Pevensey shall burn for 
this! ” 

‘“Maybe. I have seen it besieged once,” 
said De Aquila, “but heart up, Fulke. I 
promise thee that thou shalt be hanged in the 
middle of the flames at the end of that siege, 
if I have to share my last loaf with thee; and 
that is more than Odo w^uld have done when 
we starved out him and Mortain.” 

‘ Then Fulke sat up and looked long and 
cunningly at De Aquila. 

‘ “ By the Saints,” said he, “ why didst thou 
not say thou wast on the Duke’s side at the 
first?” 

‘ “ Am I ? ” said De Aquila. 

‘ Fulke laughed and said, “ No man who 
serves King Henry dare do this much to his 
messenger. When didst thou come over to 
the Duke? Let me up and we can smooth 


OLD MEN AT PEVENSEY 107 


it out together.” And he smiled and becked 
and winked. 

‘“Yes, we will smooth it out,” said De 
Aquila. He nodded to me, and Jehan and 
I heaved up Fulke—he was a heavy man—• 
and lowered him into the shaft by a rope, not 
so as to stand on our gold, but dangling by 
his shoulders a little above. It was turn of 
ebb, and the water came to his knees. He 
said nothing, but shivered somewhat. 

‘Then Jehan of a sudden beat down Gil¬ 
bert’s wrist with his sheathed dagger, “ Stop! ” 
he said. “He swallows his beads.” 

‘“Poison, belike,” said De Aquila. “It is 
good for men who know too much. I have 
carried it these thirty years. Give me!” 

‘ Then Gilbert wept and howled. De 
Aquila ran the beads through his fingers. 
The last one—I have said they were large 
nuts—opened in two halves on a pin, and 
there was a small folded parchment within. 
On it was written: ''The Old Dog goes tO’ 
Salisbury to he beaten. I have his Kennel. 
Come quickly.'' 

‘“This is worse than poison,” said De 
Aquila, very softly, and sucked in his cheeks. 
Then Gilbert grovelled in the rushes, and told 
us all he knew. The letter, as we guessed, 
was from Fulke to the Duke (and not the first 
that had passed between them); Fulke had 
given it to Gilbert in the chapel, and Gilbert 
thought to have taken it by morning to a 
certain fishing-boat at the wharf, which 
trafficked between Pevensey and the French 
shore. Gilbert was a false fellow, but he 


PUCK OF POOR’S HILL 


io8 

found time between his quakings and shak¬ 
ings to swear that the master of the boat 
knew nothing of the matter. 

‘“He hath called me shaved head,” said 
Gilbert, “and he hath thrown haddock-guts 
at me; but for all that, he is no traitor.” 

‘ “ I will have no clerk of mine mishandled 
or miscalled,” said De Aquila. “That sea¬ 
man shall be whipped at his own mast. 
Write me first a letter, and thou shalt bear it, 
with the order for the whipping, to-morrow 
to the boat.” 

‘ “ At this Gilbert would have kissed De 
Aquila’s hand—he had not hoped to live until 
the morning—and when he trembled less he 
wrote a letter as from Fulke to the Duke 
■saying that the Kennel, which signified Peven- 
sey, was shut, and that the old Dog (which 
was De Aquila) sat outside it, and, moreover, 
that all had been betrayed. 

‘“Write to any man that all is betrayed,” 
said De Aquila, “ and even the Pope himself 
would sleep uneasily. Eh, Jehan? If one 
told thee all was betrayed, what wouldst thou 
do?” 

‘“I would run away,” said Jehan. “It 
might be true.” 

‘“Well said,” quoth De Aquila. “Write, 
Gilbert, that Montgomery, the great Earl, 
hath made his peace with the King, and that 
little D’Arcy, whom I hate, hath been hanged 
by the heels. We will give Robert full mea¬ 
sure to chew upon. Write also that Fulke 
himself is sick to death of a dropsy.” 

‘“Nay?” cried Fulke, hanging in the well- 


OLD MEN AT PEVENSEY 


i09> 

shaft. “ Drown me out of hand, but do not 
make a jest of me.” 

‘”Jest? I?” said De Aquila. “I am but 
fighting for life and lands with a pen, as thou 
hast shown me, Fulke.” 

‘ Then Fulke groaned, for he was cold, and,. 
"Let me confess,” said he. 

“‘Now, this is right neighbourly,” said De 
Aquila, leaning over the shaft. " Thou hast 
read my sayings and doings—or at least the 
first part of them—and thou art minded to 
repay me with thy own doings and sayings. 
Take penner and inkhom, Gilbert. Here 
is work that will not irk thee.” 

‘" Let my men go without hurt, and I wilt 
confess my treason against the King,” said 
Fulke. 

‘" Now, why has he grown so tender of his 
men of a sudden?” said Hugh to me; for 
Fulke had no name for mercy to his men. 
Plunder he gave them, but pity, none. 

“‘T6! T6!” said De Aquila. "Thy trea~ 
son was all confessed long ago by Gilbert. It 
would be enough to hang Montgomery him¬ 
self.” 

“‘Nay; but spare my men,” said Fulke; 
and we heard him splash like a fish in a pond, 
for the tide was rising. 

‘ " All in good time,” said De Aquila. " The 
night is young; the wine is old; and we need 
only the merry tale. Begin the story of thy 
life since when thou wast a lad at Tours. 
Tell it nimbly!” 

‘‘‘Ye shame me to my soul,” said Fulke. 

“‘Then I have done what neither King- 



no 


PUCK OF POOR’S HILL 


nor Duke could do,” said De Aquila. ‘'But 
begin, and forget nothing.” 

‘“Send thy man away,” said Fulke. 

“‘That much I can,” said De Aquila. 
‘But, remember, I am like the Danes’ King; 
I cannot turn the tide.” 

‘ “How long will it rise?” said Fulke, and 
splashed anew. 

‘ “ For three hours,” said De Aquila. “ Time 
to tell all thy good deeds. Begin, and Gil¬ 
bert—I have heard thou art somewhat care¬ 
less—do not twist his words from their true 
meaning.” 

‘So—fear of death in the dark being upon 
him—Fulke began; and Gilbert, not knowing 
what his fate might be, wrote it word by word. 
I have heard many tales, but never heard I 
aught to match the tale of Fulke, his black 
life, as Fulke told it hollowly, hanging in the 
shaft.’ 

‘Was it bad?’ said Dan, awestruck. 

‘Beyond belief,’ Sir Richard answered. 
‘None the less, there was that in it which 
forced even Gilbert to laugh. We three 
laughed till we ached. At one place his teeth 
so chattered that we could not well hear, and 
we reached him down a cup of wine. Then 
he warmed to it, and smoothly set out all his 
shifts, malices, and treacheries, his extreme 
boldnesses (he was desperate bold); his retreats, 
shufflings, and counterfeitings (he was also 
inconceivably a coward); his lack of gear and 
honour; his despair at their loss; his remedies, 
and well-coloured contrivances. Yes, he 
waved the filthy rags of his life before us, as 


OLD MEN AT PEVENSEY 


nr 


though they had been some proud banner. 
When he ceased, we saw by torches that the 
tide stood at the comers of his mouth, and he 
breathed strongly through his nose. 

‘We had him out, and mbbed him; we 
wrapped him in a cloak, and gave him wine, 
and we leaned and looked upon him the while 
he drank. He was shivering, but shameless. 

‘Of a sudden we heard Jehan at the stair¬ 
way wake, but a boy pushed past him, and 
stood before us, the hall mshes in his hair, all 
slubbered with sleep. “My father! My 
father! I dreamed of treachery,” he cried, 
and babbled thickly. 

‘“There is no treachery here,” said Fulke. 
“Go,” and the boy turned, even then not 
fully awake, and Jehan led him by the hand 
to the Great Hall. 

‘“Thy only son!” said De Aquila, “Why 
didst thou bring the child here?” 

‘ “ He is my heir. I dared not tmst him to- 
my brother,” said Fulke, and now he was 
ashamed. De Aquila said nothing, but sat 
weighing a wine cup in his two hands—thus. 
Anon, Fulke touched him on the knee. 

‘“Let the boy escape to Normandy,” said 
he, “and do with me at thy pleasure. Yea, 
hang me to-morrow, with my letter to Robert 
round my neck, but let the boy go.” 

“‘Be still,” said De Aquila. “I think for 
England.” 

‘So we waited what our Lord of Pevensey 
should devise; and the sweat ran down 
Fulke’s forehead. 

‘At last said De Aquila: “ I am too old tO' 


112 


PUCK OF POOR’S HILL 


judge, or to trust any man. I do not covet 
thy lands, as thou hast coveted mine; and 
whether thou art any better or any worse than 
any other black Angevin thief, it is for thy 
King to find out. Therefore, go back to thy 
King, Fulke.” 

‘“And thou wilt say nothing of what has 
passed?” said Fulke. 

‘ “ Why should I ? Thy son will stay with 
me. If the King calls me again to leave 
Pevensey, which I must guard against Eng¬ 
land’s enemies; if the King sends his men 
against me for a traitor; or if I hear that the 
King in his bed thinks any evil of me or my 
two knights, thy son will be hanged from out 
this window, Fulke.” ’ 

‘ But it hadn’t an3rthing to do with his son,' 
cried Una, startled. 

‘How could we have hanged Fulke?'said 
Sir Richard. ‘ We needed him to make our 
peace with the King. He would have be- 
tra^^ed half England for the boy’s sake. Of 
that we were sure.’ 

‘I don’t understand,’ said Una. ‘But I 
think it was simply awful.’ 

‘ So did not Fulke. He was well pleased.’ 

‘What? Because his son was going to be 
killed?’ 

‘Nay. Because De Aquila had shown him 
how he might save the boy’s life and his own 
lands and honours. “I will do it,” he said. 
“I swear I will do it. I will tell the King 
thou art no traitor, but the most excellent, 
valiant, and perfect of us all. Yes, I will 
save thee.” 


OLD MEN AT PEVENSEY 113 

‘De Aquila looked still into the bottom of 
the cup, rolling the wine-dregs to and fro. 

' “ Ay,’' he said. “ If I had a son, I would, 
I think, save him. But do not by any means 
tell me how thou wilt go about it.” 

‘“Nay, na}^” said Fulke, nodding his bald 
head wisely. “That is my secret. But rest 
at ease, De Aquila, no hair of thy head nor 
rood of thy land shall be forfeited,” and he 
smiled like one planning great good deeds. 

‘“And henceforward,” said De Aquila, “I 
counsel thee to serve one master—not two.” 

‘“What?” said Fulke. “Can I work no 
more honest trading between the two sides 
these troublous times?” 

‘ “ Serve Robert or the King—England or 
Normandy,” said De Aquila. “I care not 
which it is, but make thy choice here and 
nov/. ’ ’ 

‘“The King, then,” said Fulke, “for I see 
he is better served than Robert. Shall I 
swear it?” 

‘“No need,” said De Aquila, and he laid 
his hand on the parchments which Gilbert had 
written. “It shall be some part of my Gil¬ 
bert’s penance to copy out the savoury tale 
of thy life, till we have made ten, twenty, an 
hundred, maybe, copies. How many cattle, 
think you, would the Bishop of Tours give for 
that tale? Or thy brother? Or the Monks 
of Blois? Minstrels will turn it into songs 
which thy own Saxon serfs shall sing behind 
their plough-stilts, and men-at-arms riding 
through thy Norman towns. From here to 
Rome, Fulke, men will make very merry over 


PUCK OF POOK’S HILL 


114 

that tale, and how Fulke told it, hanging in a 
well, like a drowned puppy. This shall be 
thy punishment, if ever I find thee double¬ 
dealing with thy King any more. Meantime, 
the parchments stay here with thy son. Him 
I will return to thee when thou hast made 
my peace with the King. The parchments 
never.” 

‘Fulke hid his face and groaned. 

‘“Bones cf the Saints!” said De Aquila, 
laughing. “ The pen cuts deep. I could 
never have fetched that grunt out of thee 
with any sword.” 

‘ “ But so long as I do not anger thee, my 
tale will be secret?” said Fulke. 

‘“Just so long. Does that comfort thee, 
Fulke?” said De Aquila. 

‘“What other comfort have ye left me?” 
he said, and of a sudden he wept hopelessly 
like a child, dropping his face on his knees.' 

‘Poor Fulke,' said Una. 

‘I pitied him also,’ said Sir Richard. 

‘“After the spur, com,” said De Aquila, 
and he threw Fulke three wedges of gold that 
he had taken from our little chest by the bed- 
place. 

‘ “ If I had known this,” said Fulke, catching 
his breath, “ I would never have lifted hand 
against Pevensey. Only lack of this yellow 
stuff has made me so unlucky in my dealings.” 

‘ It was dawn then, and they stirred in the 
Great Hall below. We sent down Fulke’s 
mail to be scoured, and when he rode away 
at noon under his own and the King's banner 
very splendid and stately did he show. He 


OLD MEN AT PEVENSEY 


115 

smoothed his long beard, and called his son 
to his stiriTip and kissed him. De Aquila 
rode with him as far as the New Mill landward. 
We thought the night had been all a dream.' 

‘But did he make it right with the King?' 
Dan asked. ‘About your not being traitors, 
I mean?' 

Sir Richard smiled. ‘The King sent no 
second summons to Pevensey, nor did he ask 
why De Aquila had not obeyed the first. 
Yes, that was Fulke’s work. I know not 
how he did it, but it was well and swiftly done.' 

‘Then you didn’t do anything to his son?' 
said Una. 

‘ The boy? Oh, he was an imp. He turned 
the keep doors out of dortoirs while we had 
him. He sang foul songs, learned in the 
Barons’ camps—poor fool; he set the hoimds 
fighting in hall; he lit the rushes to drive out, 
as he said, the fleas; he drew his dagger on 
Jehan, who threw him down the stairway for 
it; and he rode his horse through crops and 
among sheep. But when we had beaten him, 
and showed him wolf and deer, he followed 
us old men like a young, eager hound, and 
called us “uncle.” His father came the 
summer’s end to take him away, but the boy 
had no lust to go, because of the otter-hunting, 
and he stayed on till the fox-hunting. I gave 
him a bittern’s claw to bring him good luck 
at shooting. An imp, if ever there was!' 

‘ And what happened to Gilbert ? ’ said Dan. 

‘ Not even a whipping. De Aquila said he 
would sooner a clerk, however false, that 
knew the Manor-roll than a fool, however true. 


ii6 PUCK OF POOK’S HILL 

that must be taught his work afresh. More¬ 
over, after that night I think Gilbert loved as 
much as he feared De Aquila. At least he 
would not leave us—not even when Vivian, 
the King’s Clerk, would have made him 
Sacristan of Battle Abbey. A false fellow, 
but, in his fashion, bold.’ 

‘ Did Robert ever land in Pevensey after all? ’ 
Dan went on. 

‘We guarded the coast too well while Henry 
was fighting his Barons; and three or four 
years later, when England had peace, Henry 
crossed to Normandy and showed his brother 
some work at Tenchebrai that cured Robert 
of fighting. Many of Henry’s men sailed 
from Pevensey to that war. Fulke came, I 
remember, and we all four lay in the little 
chamber once again, and drank together. De 
Aquila was right. One should not judge men. 
Fulke was merry. Yes, always merry—with 
a catch in his breath.’ 

‘And what did you do afterwards?' said Una. 

‘We talked together of times past. That 
is all men can do when they grow old, little 
maid.’ 

The bell for tea rang faintly across the 
meadows. Dan lay in the bows of the Golden 
Hind; Una in the stem, the book of verses 
open in her lap, was reading from ‘ The 
Slave’s Dream’:— 

‘ Again in the mist and shadow of sleep 
He saw his native land.’ 

‘I don’t know when you began that/ said 
Dan, sleepily. 


OLD MEN AT PEVENSEY 117 


On the middle thwart of the boat, beside 
Una’s sun-bonnet, lay an Oak leaf, an Ash leaf, 
and a Thom leaf, that must have dropped 
down from the trees above; and the brook 
giggled as though it had just seen some joke. 




f, 

•i 


/ , 



THE RUNES ON WELAND’S SWORD 


A Smith makes me 
To betray my Man 
In my first fight, 

T0 gather Gold 
At the world's end 
I am sent. 

The Gold I gather 
Comes into England 
Out of deep Water. 

Like a shining Fish 
Then it descends 
Into deep Water. 

It is not given 
For goods or gear. 
But for The Thing 

The Gold I gather 
A King covets 
For an ill use. 

The Gold I gather 
Is drawn up 
Out of deep Water. 


120 


PUCK OF POOK'S HILL 


Like a shining Fish 
Then it descends 
Into deep Water. 

It is not given 
For goods or gear 
But for The Thing, 


A CENTURION OF THE THIRTIETH 





Cities and Thrones and Powers, 

Stand in Time's eye, 

Almost as long as flowers, 

Which daily die: 

But, as new buds put forth, 

To glad new men. 

Out of the spent and unconsidered Earth, 
The Cities rise again. 

This season's Daffodil, 

She never hears. 

What change, what chance, what chill. 
Cut down last year's ; 

But with bold countenance. 

And knowledge small, 

Esteems her seven days' continuance 
To be perpetual. 

So Time that is o'er-kind, 

T0 all that be, 

Ordains us e'en as blind, 

As bold as she: 

That in our very death. 

And burial sure. 

Shadow to shadow, well-persuaded, saith, 
'See how our works endure!' 


123 


L 


A CENTURION OF THE THIRTIETH 


T^AN had come to grief over his Latin, and 
^■-^was kept in; so Una went alone to Far 
Wood. Dan’s big catapult and the lead bul¬ 
lets that Hobden had made for him were hid¬ 
den in an old hollow beech-stub on the west of 
the wood. They had named the place out of 
the verse in Lays of Ancient Rome. 

From lordly Volaterrae, 

Where scowls the far-famed hold, 

Piled by the hands of giants 
For Godlike Kings of old. 

They were the ‘Godlike Kings,’ and when 
old Hobden piled some comfortable brush¬ 
wood between the big wooden knees of Vol¬ 
aterrae, they called him ‘Hands of Giants.’ 

Una slipped through their private gap in the 
fence, and sat still a while, scowling as scowlily 
and lordlily as she knew how; for ‘ Volaterrae ’ 
is an important watch-tower that juts out of 
Far Wood just as Far Wood juts out of the 
hillside. Pook’s Hill lay below her, and all 
the turns of the brook as it wanders from out 
of the Willingford Woods, between hop¬ 
gardens, to old Hobden’s cottage at the Forge. 
The Sou’-West wind (there is always a wind 
by ‘Volaterrae’) blew from the bare ridge- 
where Cherry Clack Windmill stands. 

Now wind prowling through woods sounds 
like excititig things going to happen, and 


126 


PUCK OF POOK’S HILL 


that is why on ‘blowy days’ you stand up in 
Volaterrae and shout bits of the Lays to suit 
its noises. 

Una took Dan’s catapult from its secret 
place, and made ready to meet Lars Porsena’s 
army stealing through the wind-whitened 
aspens by the brook. A gust boomed up the 
valley, and Una chanted sorrowfully: 

‘ Verbenna down to Ostia 
Hath wasted all the plain; 

Astur hath stormed Janiculum 
And the stout guards are slain.* 

But the wind, not charging fair to the wood, 
started aside and shook a single oak in Glea¬ 
son’s pasture. Here it made itself all small 
and crouched among the grasses, waving the 
tips of them as a cat waves the tip of her tail 
before she springs. 

‘ Now welcome—welcome Sextus,’ sang Una, 
loading the catapult— 

‘ Now welcome to thy home. 

Why dost thou turn and run away ? 

Here lies the rod of Rome.’ 

She fired into the face of the lull, to wake up 
the cowardly wind, and heard a grunt from 
behind a thorn in the pasture. 

‘Oh, my Winkiel’she said aloud, and that 
was something she had picked up from Dan. 
‘ I believe I’ve tickled up a Gleason cow. ’ 

‘You little painted beast!’ a voice cried. 
'I’ll teach you to sling your masters!’ 

She looked down most cautiously, and saw 
a young man covered with hoopy bronze 
armour all glowing among the late broom. 


A CENTURION OF THE THIRTIETH 127 


But what Una admired beyond all was his 
great bronze helmet with its red horse-tail that 
flicked in the wind. She could hear the long 
hairs rasp on his shimmery shoulder-plates. 

‘What does the Faun mean,’ he said, half 
aloud to himself, ‘by telling me the Painted 
People have changed?’ He caught sight of 
Una's yellow head. ‘ Have you seen a painted 
lead-slinger?’ he called. 

‘No-0,’ said Una. ‘But if you’ve seen a 
bullet-’ 

‘Seen?’ cried the man. ‘It passed within 
a hair’s breadth of my ear.’ 

‘Well, that was me. I’m most awfully 
sorry.’ 

‘Didn’t the Faun tell you I was coming?’ 
He smiled. 

‘ Not if you mean Puck. I thought you 
were a Gleason cow. I—I didn’t know you 
were a—a- What are you?’ 

He laughed outright, showing a set of 
splendid teeth. His face and eyes were dark, 
and his eyebrows met above his big nose in 
one bushy black bar. 

‘ They call me Pamesius. I have been an 
officer of the Seventh Cohort of the Thirtieth 
Legion—the Ulpia Victrix. Did you sling 
that bullet?’ 

‘ I did. I was using Dan’s catapult, said 
Una.’ 

‘ Catapults! ’ said he. ‘ I ought to know 
something about them. Show me!’ 

He leaped the rough fence with a rattle of 
spear, shield, and armour, and hoisted himself 
into ‘ Volaterrae ’ as quicky as a shadow. 




128 


PUCK OF POOK’S HILL 


‘A sling on a forked stick. I understand!' 
he cried, and pulled at the elastic. ‘ But 
what wonderful beast yields this stretching 
leather? ’ 

‘ It’s laccy—elastic. You put the bullet 
into that loop, and then you pull hard.’ 

The man pulled, and hit himself square on 
his thumb-nail. 

‘ Each to his own weapon,’ he said, gravely, 
handing it back. ‘ I am better with the bigger, 
machine, little maiden. But it’s a pretty toy. 
A wolf would laugh at it. Aren’t you afraid 
of wolves ? ’ 

‘There aren’t any,’ said Una. 

‘Never believe it! A wolf is like a Winged 
Hat. He comes when he isn’t expected. Don’t 
they hunt wolves here ? ’ 

‘We don’t hunt,’ said Una, remembering 
what she had heard from grown-ups. ‘ We 
preserve—pheasants. Do you know them?’ 

‘I ought to,’ said the young man, smiling 
again, and he imitated the cry of the cock- 
pheasant so perfectly that a bird answered 
out of the wood. 

‘What a big painted clucking fool is a 
pheasant,’ he said. ‘ Just like some Romans! ’ 

‘ But you’re a Roman yourself, aren’t you? ’ 
said Una. 

‘Ye-es and no. I’m one of a good few 
thousands who have never seen Rome except 
in a picture. My people have lived at Vectis 
for generations. Vectis! That island West 
yonder that you can see from so far in clear 
weather.’ 

‘Do you mean the Isle of Wight? It lifts 


A CENTURION OF THE THIRTIETH 129 

up just before rain, and we see it from the 
Downs.’ 

‘Very likely. Our Villa’s on the South 
edge of the Island, by the Broken Cliffs. 
Most of it is three hundred years old, but the 
cow-stables, where our first ancestor lived, 
must be a hundred years older. Oh, quite 
that, because the founder of our family had 
his land given him by Agricola at the Settle¬ 
ment. It’s not a bad little place for its size. 
In spring-time violets grow down to the very 
beach. I’ve gathered sea-weeds for myself 
and violets for my Mother many a time with 
our old nurse.’ 

‘Was your nurse a—a Romaness too?’ 

‘ No, a Numidian. Gods be good to her! 
A dear, fat, brown thing with a tongue like 
a cowbell. She was a free woman. By the 
way, are you free, maiden?’ 

‘Oh quite,’ said Una. ‘At least, till tea- 
time; and in summer our governess doesn’t 
say much if we’re late.’ 

The young man laughed again—a proper 
understanding laugh. 

‘I see,’ said he. ‘That accounts for your 
being in the wood. We hid among the cliffs.’ 

‘Did you have a governess, then?’ 

‘Did we not? A Greek, too. She had a 
way of clutching her dress when she hunted 
us among the gorze-bushes that made us 
laugh. Then she’d say she’d get us whipped. 
She never did, though, bless her! Aglaia was a 
thorough sportswoman, for all her learning.’ 

‘ But what lessons did you do—when—• 
when you were little!’ 


130 


PUCK OF POOK’S HILL 


‘Ancient history, the Classics, arithmetic, 
and so on,' he answered. ‘My sister and I 
were thickheads, but my two brothers (I’m 
the middle one) liked those things, and, of 
course. Mother was clever enough for any 
six. She was nearly as tall as I am, and she 
looked like the new statue on the Western 
Road—the Demeter of the Baskets, you know. 
And funny! Roma Deal How Mother could 
make us laugh I ’ 

‘What at?’ 

‘ Little jokes and sayings that every family 
has. Don’t you know?’ 

‘I know we have, but I didn’t know other 
people had them too,’ said Una. ‘Tell me 
about all your family, please.’ 

‘ Good families are very much alike. Mother 
would sit spinning of evenings while Aglaia 
read in her corner, and Father did accounts, 
and we four romped about the passages. 
When our noise grew too loud the Pater 
would say, “Less tumult! Less tumult! 
Have you never heard of a Father’s right 
over his children? He can slay them, my 
loves—slay them dead, and the Gods highly 
approve of the action! ” Then Mother would 
prim up her dear mouth over the wheel 
and answer: “ H’m! I’m afraid there 

can’t be much of the Roman Father 
about you!” Then the Pater would roll 
up his accounts, and say, “I’ll show you!” 
and then — then, he’d be worse than any 
of us!’ 

‘Fathers can—if they like,’ said Una, her 
eyes dancing. 


A CENTURION OF THE THIRTIETH 131 

‘Didn’t I say all good families are very 
much the same ? ’ 

‘What did you do in summer?’ said Una. 
‘ Play about, like us ? ’ 

‘Yes, and we visited our friends. There 
are no wolves in Vectis. We had many 
friends, and as many ponies as we wished.’ 

‘It must have been lovely,’ said Una. ‘I 
hope it lasted for ever. ’ 

‘ Not quite, little maid. When I was about 
sixteen or seventeen, the Father felt gouty, 
and we all went to the Waters.’ 

‘What waters?’ 

‘At Aquae Solis. Every one goes there. 
You ought to get your Father to take you 
some day. ’ 

‘ But where? I don’t know,’ said Una. 

The young man looked astonished for a 
moment. ‘Aquae Solis,’ he repeated. ‘The 
best baths in Britain. Just as good. I’m told, 
as Rome. All the old gluttons sit in its hot 
water, and talk scandal and politics. And the 
Generals come through the streets with their 
guards behind them; and the magistrates 
come in their chairs with their stiff guards 
behind them; and you meet fortune-tellers, 
and goldsmiths, and merchants, and philos¬ 
ophers, and feather-sellers, and ultra-Roman 
Britons, and ultra-British Romans, and tame 
tribesmen pretending to be civilised, and Jew 
lecturers, and—oh, everybody interesting. 
We young people, of course, took no interest 
in politics. We had not the gout: there were 
many of our age like us. We did not find 
life sad. 


132 


PUCK OF POOR’S HILL 


* But while we were enjoying ourselves 
without thinking, my sister met the son of a 
magistrate in the West—and a year after¬ 
wards she was married to him. My young 
brother, who was always interested in plants 
and roots, met the First Doctor of a Legion 
from the City of the Legions, and he decided 
that he would be an Army doctor. I do not 
think it is a profession for a well-born man, 
but then—I’m not my brother. He went to 
Rome to study medicine, and now he’s First 
Doctor of a Legion in Egypt—at Antinoe, 
I think, but I have not heard from him for 
some time. 

‘My eldest brother came across a Greek 
philosopher, and told my Father that he 
intended to settle down on the estate as a 
farmer and a philosopher. You see’—the 
young man’s eyes twinkled—‘his philosopher 
was a long-haired one! ’ 

‘I thought philosophers were bald,’ said 
Una. 

‘ Not all. She was very pretty. I don’t 
blame him. Nothing could have suited me 
better than my eldest brother’s doing this, 
for I was only too keen to join the Army. I 
had always feared I should have to stay at 
home and look after the estate while my 
brother took this.' 

He rapped on his great glistening shield 
that never seemed to be in his way. 

‘ So we were w^ell contented—we young 
people—and we rode back to Clausentum 
along the Wood Road very quietly. But 
when we reached home, Aglaia, our governess. 


A CENTURION OF THE THIRTIETH 133 

saw what had come to us. I remember her 
at the door, the torch over her head, watching 
us climb the cliff-path from the boat. “ Aiel 
Aie!” she said. “Children you went away. 
Men and a woman you return!” Then she 
kissed Mother, and Mother wept. Thus our 
visit to the Waters settled our fates for each 
of us. Maiden.’ 

He rose to his feet and listened, leaning on 
the shield-rim. 

‘ I think that’s Dan—my brother,’ said Una. 

‘ Yes; and the Faun is with him,’ he replied, 
as Dan with Puck stumbled through the 
copse. 

‘ We should have come sooner,’ Puck called, 
‘but the beauties of your native tongue, O 
Pamesius, have enthralled this young citizen. ’ 

Pamesius looked bewildered, even when 
Una explained. 

‘ Dan said the plural of “ dominus ” was 
“ dominoes, ” and when Miss Blake said it 
wasn’t he said he supposed it was “back¬ 
gammon,” and so he had to write it out twice 
—for cheek, you know.’ 

Dan had climbed into Volaterrae, hot and 
panting. 

‘I’ve run nearly all the way,’ he gasped, 
‘and then Puck met me. How do you do. 
Sir?’ 

‘I am in good health,’ Pamesius answered. 
‘ See! I have tried to bend the bow of Ulysses, 
but-’He held up his thumb. 

‘ I’m sorry. You must have pulled off too 
soon,’ said Dan. ‘ Puck said you were telling 
Una a story.’ 



134 


PUCK OF POOR’S HILL 


'Continue, O Pamesius,’ said Puck, who 
had perched himself on a dead branch above 
them. 'I will be chorus. Has he puzzled 
you much, Una?’ 

'Not a bit, except—I didn’t know where 
Ak—Ak something was,’ she answered. 

' Oh, Aquae Solis. That’s Bath, where the 
buns come from. Let the hero tell his own 
tale. ’ 

Pamesius pretended to thmst his spear at 
Puck’s legs, but Puck reached down, caught 
at the horse-tail plume, and pulled off the tall 
helmet. 

‘Thanks, jester,’ said Pamesius, shaking 
his curly dark head. ‘That is cooler. Now 
hang it up for me. . . . 

‘ I was telling your sister how I joined the 
Army,’ he said to Dan. 

'Did you have to pass an Exam?’ Dan 
asked, eagerly. 

'No. I went to my Father, and said I 
should like to enter the Dacian Horse (I had 
seen some at Aquae Solis); but he said I 
had better begin service in a regular Legion 
from Rome. Now, like many of our young¬ 
sters, I was not too fond of anything Ro¬ 
man. The Roman-bom officers and mag¬ 
istrates looked down on us British-bom 
as though we were barbarians. I told my 
Father so. 

‘“I know they do,” he said; "but re¬ 
member, after all, we are the people of the 
Old Stock, and our duty is to the Empire.” 

"‘To which Empire?” I asked. “WespHt 
the Eagle before I was bom.” 


A CENTURION OF THE THIRTIETH 135 

‘“What thieves’ talk is that?” said my 
Father. He hated slang. 

“‘Well, Sir,” I said, “we’ve one Emperor 
in Rome, and I don’t know how many Em¬ 
perors the outlying Provinces have set up 
from time to time. Which am I to fol¬ 
low ? ” 

‘“Gratian,” said he. “At least he’s a 
sportsman.” 

“‘He’s all that,” I said. “Hasn’t he 
turned himself into a raw-beef-eating Scy¬ 
thian?” 

‘ “ Where did you hear of it? ” said the Pater. 

‘“At Aquae Solis,” I said. It was per¬ 
fectly true. This precious Emperor Gratian 
of ours had a bodyguard of fur-cloaked 
Scythians, and he was so crazy about them 
that he dressed like them. In Rome of all 
places in the world! It was as bad as if my 
own Father had painted hmself blue! 

‘“No matter for the clothes,” said the 
Pater. “They are only the fringe of the 
trouble. It began before your time or mine. 
Rome has forsaken her Gods, and must be 
punished. The great war with the Painted 
People broke out in the very year the temples 
of our Gods were destroyed. We beat the 
Painted People in the very year our temples 
were rebuilt. Go back further still.” . . . 
He went back to the time of Diocletian; and 
to listen to him you would have thought 
Eternal Rome herself was on the edge of 
destruction, just because a few people had 
become a little large-minded. 

‘/ knew nothing about it. Aglaia never 


136 PUCK OF look.. . 

taught us the history of our own country. 
She was so full of her ancient Greeks. 

‘“There is no hope for Rome,” said the 
Pater, at last. ‘‘She has forsaken her Gods, 
but if the Gods forgive us here, we may save 
Britain. To do that, we must keep the 
Painted People back. Therefore, I tell you, 
Parnesius, as a Father, that if your heart is 
set on service, your place is among men on 
the Wall—and not with women among the 
cities.” ’ 

‘What Wall?’ asked Dan and Una at once. 

‘Father meant the one we call Hadrian’s 
Wall, ril tell you about it later. It was 
built long ago, across North Britain, to keep 
out the Painted People—Piets you call them. 
Father had fought in the great Piet War that 
lasted more than twenty years, and he knew 
what fighting meant. Theodosius, one of 
our great Generals, had chased the little beasts 
back far into the North before I was bom: 
down at Vectis, of course, we never troubled 
our heads about them. But when my Father 
spoke as he did, I kissed his hand, and waited 
for orders. We British-born Romans know 
what is due to our parents.’ 

‘If I kissed my Father’s hand, he’d laugh,’ 
said Dan. 

‘Customs change; but if you do not obey 
your father, the Gods remember it. You 
may be quite sure of that. 

‘ After our talk, seeing I was in earnest, the 
Pater sent me over to Clausentum to learn 
my foot-drill in a barrack full of foreign 
Auxiliaries—as unwashed and unshaved a mob 


A CENTURION OF THE THIRTIETH 137 


of mixed barbarians as ever scrubbed a breast¬ 
plate. It was your stick in their stomachs 
and your shield in their faces to push them 
into any sort of formation. When I had 
learned my work the Instructor gave me 
a handful—and they were a handful!—of 
Gauls and Iberians to polish up till they were 
sent to their stations up-country. I did my 
best, and one night a villa in the suburbs 
caught fire, and I had my handful out and at 
work before any of the other troops. I 
noticed a quiet-looking man on the lawn, 
leaning on a stick. He watched us passing 
buckets from the pond, and at last he said to¬ 
me: “Who are you?” 

‘“A probationer, waiting for a cohort,” I 
answered. I did’nt know who he 
Deucalion! 

‘“Bom in Britain?” he said. 

‘ “ Yes, if you were born in Spaii 
for he neighed his words like an Iberian mule. 

‘ “ And what might you call yourself when 
you are at home? ” he said laughing. 

' ‘“That depends,” I answered; “some¬ 
times one thing and sometimes another. 
But now Fm busy.” 

‘He said no more till we had saved the 
family gods (they were respectable house¬ 
holders), and then he gmnted across the 
laurels: “ Listen, young sometimes-one-thing- 

and-sometimes-another. In future call your¬ 
self Centurion of the Seventh Cohort of the 
Thirtieth, the Ulpia Victrix. That will help, 
me to remember you. Your Father and a 
few other people call me Maximus,” 


was irom 



1,” I said,. 


138 PUCK OF POOR’S HILL 

‘He tossed me the polished stick he was 
leaning on, and went away. You might have 
knocked me down with it! ’ 

‘ Who was he? ’ said Dan. 

‘Maximus himself, our great General! The 
General of Britain who had been Theodosius’s 
right hand in the Piet War! Not only had he 
given me my Centurion’s stick direct, but 
three steps in a good Legion as well! A new 
man generally begins in the Tenth Cohort of 
his Legion, and works up.’ 

‘And were you pleased?’ said Una. 

‘Very. I thought Maximus had chosen me 
for my good looks and fine style in marching, 
but, when I went home, the Pater told me he 
had served under Maximus in the great Piet 
War, and had asked him to promote me.’ 

‘ A child you were! ’ said Puck, from above. 

‘I was,’ said Pamesius. ‘Don’t begrudge 
it me. Faun. Afterwards—the Gods know 
I put aside the games!’ And Puck nodded, 
brown chin on brown hand, his big eyes still. 

‘ The night before I left we sacrificed to our 
ancestors—the usual little Home Sacrifice— 
but I never prayed so earnestly to all the Good 
Shades, and then I went with my Father by 
boat to Regnum, and across the chalk east¬ 
wards to Anderida yonder.’ 

‘Regnum? Anderida?’ The children turned 
their faces to Puck. 

‘Regnum’s Chichester,’ he said, pointing 
towards Cherry Clack, and—he threw his arm 
South behind him—‘ Anderida’s Pevensey.’ 

‘ Pevensey again! ’ said Dan. ‘ Where We- 
land landed?’ 


CENTURION OF THE THIRTIETH 139 

‘Weland and a few others,’ said Puck. 
'Pevensey isn’t young — even compared to 
me! ’ 

‘The head-quarters of the Thirtieth lay at 
Anderida in summer, but my own Cohort, the 
Seventh, was on the Wall up North. Maxi¬ 
mus was inspecting Auxiliaries—the Abulci, 
I think—at Anderida, and we stayed with 
him, for he and my Father were very old 
friends. I was only there ten days when I 
was ordered to go up with thirty men to my 
Cohort.’ He laughed merrily. ‘A man never 
forgets his first march. I was happier than 
any Emperor when I led my handful through 
the North Gate of the Camp, and we saluted 
the guard and the Altar of Victory there.’ 

‘How? How?’ said Dan and Una. 

Pamesius smiled, and stood up, flashing 
in his armour. 

‘Sol’ said he; and he moved slowly through 
the beautiful movements of the Roman Salute, 
that ends with a hollow clang of the shield 
coming into its place between the shoulders. 

‘Hail’ said Puck. ‘That sets one think- 
ing! ’ 

‘We went out fully armed,’ said Pamesius,. 
sitting down; ‘ but as soon as the road entered 
the Great Forest, my men expected the pack- 
horses to hang their shields on. “No!” I 
said; “ you can dress like women in Anderida, 
but while you’re with me you will carry your 
own weapons and armour.” 

‘ “ But it’s hot,” said one of them, “ and we 
haven’t a doctor. Suppose we get sunstroke, 
or a fever? ” 


140 


PUCK OF POOR’S HILL 


‘“Then die,” I said, “and a good riddance 
to Rome! Up shield—up spears, and tighten 
your foot-wear!” 

‘ “ Don’t think yourself Emperor of Britain 
already,” a fellow shouted. I knocked him 
over with the butt of my spear, and explained 
to these Roman-born Romans that, if there 
were any further trouble, we should go on 
with one man short. And, by the Light of 
the Sun, I meant it too! My raw Gauls at 
Clausentum had never treated me so. 

‘ Then, quietly as a cloud, Maximus rode out 
of the fern (my Father behind him), and reined 
up across the road. He wore the Purple, as 
though he were already Emperor; his leggings 
were of white buckskin laced with gold. 

‘ My men dropped like—like partridges. 

‘ He said nothing for some time, only looked, 
with his eyes puckered. Then he crooked his 
forefinger, and my men walked—crawled, I 
mean—to one side. 

‘ “Stand in the sun, children,” he said, and 
they formed up on the hard road. 

What would you have done? ” he said to 
me, “ If I had not been here? ” 

“‘I should have killed that man,” I an¬ 
swered. 

“‘Kill him now',” he said. “He will not 
move a limb.” 

‘“No,” I said. “You’ve taken my men 
out of my command. I should only be your 
butcher if I killed him now.” Do you see 
what I meant? ’ Pamesius turned to Dan. 

‘Yes,’ said Dan. ‘It wouldn’t have been 
fair, somehow.’ 


A CENTURION OF THE THIRTIETH 141 

'That was what I thought,* said Pamesius. 
But Maximus frowned. ‘'You’ll never be an 
Emperor,” he said. “Not even a General 
will yon be.” 

‘ I was silent, but my Father seemed pleased. 

‘ “ I came here to see the last of you,” he 
said. 

‘“You have seen it,” said Maximus. “I 
shall never need your son any more. He will 
live and he will die an officer of a Legion— 
and he might have been Prefect of one of 
my Provinces. Now eat and drink with us,” 
he said. “Your men will wait till you have 
finished.” 

‘My miserable thirty stood like wine-skins 
glistening in the hot sun, and Maximus led us 
to where his people had set a meal. Himself 
he mixed the wine. 

‘“A year from now,” he said, “you will 
remember that you have sat with the Emperor 
of Britain—and Gaul.” 

‘ “ Yes,” said the Pater, “ you can drive two 
mules—Gaul and Britain.” 

‘ “ Five years hence you will remember that 
you have drunk”—he passed me the cup and 
there was blue borage in it—“with the Em¬ 
peror of Rome! ” 

‘“No; you can’t drive three mules; they 
will tear you in pieces,” said my Father. 

‘ “ And you on the Wall, among the heather, 
will weep because your notion of justice was 
more to you than the favour of the Emperor 
of Rome.” 

‘ I sat quite still. One does not answer a 
General who wears the Purple. 


142 


PUCK OF POOR’S HILL 


‘“I am not angry with you,” he went on; 

I owe too much to your Father-” 

‘ “ You owe me nothing but advice that you 
never took,” said the Pater. 

-to be unjust to any of your family. 

Indeed, I say you will make a good officer^ 
but, so far as I am concerned, on the Wall you 
will live, and on the Wall you will die,” said 
Maximus. 

“‘Very like,” said my Father. “But we 
shall have the Piets and their friends breaking 
through before long. You cannot move all 
troops out of Britain to make you Emperor, 
and expect the North to sit quiet.” 

“‘I follow my destiny,” said Maximus. 

‘ “Follow it, then,” said my Father pulling 
up a fern root; “ and die as Theodosius died.” 

‘“Ah!” said Maximus. “My old General 
was killed because he served the Empire too 
well. I may be killed, but not for that reason, ’ 
and he smiled a little pale grey smile that 
made my blood run cold. 

‘“Then I had better follow my destiny,” 
I said, “ and take my men to the Wall.” 

‘ He looked at me a long time, and bowed 
his head slanting like a Spaniard. “Follow 
it, boy,” he said. That was all. I was only 
too glad to get away, though I had many 
messages for home. I found my men stand¬ 
ing as they had been put—they had not even 
shifted their feet in the dust,—and off I 
marched, still feeling that terrific smile like 
an east wind up my back. I never halted 
them till sunset, and’—he turned about and 
looked at Book’s Hill below him—‘then I 



A CENTURION OF THE THIRTIETH 143 

halted yonder.’ He pointed to the broken, 
bracken-covered shoulder of the Forge Hill 
behind old Hobden’s cottage. 

‘ There? Why, that’s only the old Forge— 
where they made iron once, ’ said Dan. 

‘ Very good stuff it was too,’ said Pamesius, 
calmly. ‘We mended three shoulder-straps 
here and had a spear-head riveted. The 
forge was rented from the Government by 
a one-eyed smith from Carthage. I remember 
we called him Cylops. He sold me a beaver- 
skin rug for my sister’s room.’ 

‘But it couldn’t have been here, ’ Dan 
insisted. 

‘But it was! From the Altar of Victory 
at Anderida to the First Forge in the Forest 
here is twelve miles seven hundred paces. It 
is all in the Road Book. A man doesn’t forget 
his first march. I think I could tell you 

every station between this and-’ He 

leaned forward, but his eye was caught by 
the setting sun. 

It had come down to the top of Cherry 
Clack Hill, and the light poured in between 
the tree trunks so that you could see red and 
gold and black deep into the heart of Far 
Wood; and Pamesius in his armour shone as 
though he had been afire. 

‘ Wait,’ he said, lifting a hand, and the sun¬ 
light jinked on his glass bracelet. ‘Wait! 
I pray to Mithras! ’ 

He rose and stretched his arms westward, 
with deep, splendid-sounding words. 

Then Puck began to sing too, in a voice 
like bells tolling, and as he sang he slipped 


144 


PUCK OF POOR’S HILL 


from ' Volaterrae ’ to the ground, and beckoned 
the children to follow. They obeyed; it 
seemed as though the voices were pushing 
them along; and through the goldy-brown 
light on the beech leaves they walked, while 
Puck between them chanted something like 
this:— 

Cur mundus militat sub vana gloria 

Cujus prosperitas est transitoria? 

Tam cito labitm* ejus potentia 

Quam vasa figuli quae sunt fragilia. 

They found themselves at the little locked 
gates of the wood. 

Quo Caesar abiit celsus imperio? 

Vel Dives splendidus totus in prandio? 

Die ubi Tullius- 

Still singing, he took Dan’s hand and 
wheeled him round to face Una as she came 
out of the gate. It shut behind her, at the 
same time as Puck threw the memory- 
magicking Oak, Ash, and Thom leaves over 
their heads. 

‘ WeU, you are jolly late, ’ said Una. ‘ Couldn’t 
you get away before ? ’ 

‘I did,’ said Dan. ‘I got away in lots of 
time, but—but I didn’t Imow it was so late. 
Where’ve you been?’ 

‘In Volaterrae—^waiting for you.’ 

‘ Sorry,’ said Dan. ‘ It was all that beastly 
Latin.’ 


A BRITISH-ROMAN SONG 

(A. D. 406) 

My father's father saw it not, 

And /, belike, shall never come. 

To look on that so-holy spot — 

The very Rome — 

Crowned by all Time, all Art, all Might, 

The equal work of Gods and Man — 
City beneath whose oldest height 

The Race began ,— 

Soon to send forth again a brood 
Unshakeable, we pray, that clings, 

To Rome's thrice-hammered hardihood — 
In arduous things. 

Strong heart with triple armour bound. 

Beat strongly, for thy life-blood runs, 

Age after Age, the Empire round — 

In us thy Sons, 

Who, distant from the Seven Hills, 

Loving and serving mtich, require 
Thee, Thee to guard 'gainst home-born ills,, 
T^ Imperial Fire! 


MS 







ON THE GREAT WALL 







ON THE GREAT WALL 


When I left Rome for Lalage’s sake 
By the Legions' Road to Rimini, 

Sie vowed her heart was mine to take 
With me and my shield to Rimini— 

(Till the Eagles flew from Rimini!) 

And I’ve tramped Britain and I’ve tramped Ganl 
And the Pontic shore where the snow-flakes faH 
As white as the neck of Lalage— 

As cold as the heart of Lalage I 

And I’ve lost Britain and I’ve lost Gaul 

(the voice seemed very cheerful about it). 

And I’ve lost Rome, and worst of all, 

I’ve lost Lalage! 

T hey were standing by the gate to Far 
Wood when they heard this song. With¬ 
out a word they hurried to their private gap 
and wriggled through the hedge almost atop 
of a jay that was feeding from Puck’s hand. 

‘ Gently! ’ said Puck. ‘ What are you look¬ 
ing for? ’ 

‘ Pamesius, of course,' Dan answered. 
‘We’ve only just remembered yesterday. It 
isn’t fair.’ 

Puck chuckled as he rose. ‘I’m sorry, 
but children who spend the afternoon with 
me and a Roman Centurion need a little 
settling dose of Magic before they go to tea 
with their governess. Oh6, Pamesius!’ he 
caUed. 


149 


PUCK OF POOKAS HILL 


150 

‘ Here, Faun! ’ came the answer from ‘ Vola- 
terrae.’ They could see the shimmer of 
bronze armour in the beech crotch, and the 
friendly flash of the great shield uplifted. 

‘ I have driven out the Britons.’ Pamesius 
laughed like a boy. ‘I occupy their high 
forts. But Rome is merciful! You may 
come up.’ And up they three all scrambled. 

‘What was the song you were singing just 
now?’ said Una, as soon as she had settled 
herself. 

‘That? Oh, Rimini. It’s one of the tunes 
that are always being bom somewhere in the 
Empire. They run like a pestilence for six 
months or a year, till another one pleases the 
Legions, and then they march to that. ’ 

‘Tell them about the marching, Pamesius. 
Few people nowadays walk from end to end 
of this country,’ said Puck. 

‘The greater their loss. I know nothing 
better than the Long March when your feet 
are hardened. You begin after the mists 
have risen, and you end, perhaps, an hour 
after sundown.’ 

‘And what do you have to eat?’ Dan 
asked, promptly. 

‘ Fat bacon, beans, and bread, and whatever 
wine happens to be in the rest-houses. But 
soldiers are bom gmmblers. Their very first 
day out, my men complained of our water- 
ground British com. They said it wasn’t 
so filling as the rough stuff that is ground in 
the Roman ox-mills. However, they had to 
fetch and eat it.’ 

‘Fetch it? Where from?’ said Una. 


ON THE GREAT WALL 


‘From that newly-invented water-mill be¬ 
low the Forge.* 

‘That’s Forge Mill —our Mill!’ Una looked 
at Puck. 

‘Yes; yours,* Puck put in. ‘How old did 
you think it was?* 

‘ I don’t know. Didn’t Sir Richard Dalyn- 
gridge talk about it?’ 

‘ He did, and it was old in his day, * Puck 
answered. ‘Hundreds of years old.’ 

‘ It was new in mine,’ said Pamesius. ‘ My 
men looked at the flour in their helmets as 
though it had been a nest of adders. They 
did it to try my patience. But I—addressed 
them, and we became friends. To tell the 
truth, they taught me the Roman Step. You 
see. I’d only served with quick-marching 
Auxiliaries. A Legion’s pace is altogether 
different. It is a long, slow stride, that never 
varies from sunrise to sunset. “Rome’s 
Race—Rome’s Pace,” as the proverb says. 
Twenty-four miles in eight hours, neither 
more nor less. Head and spear up, shield on 
your back, cuirass-collar open one hand’s 
breadth—and that’s how you take the Eagles 
through Britain.’ 

‘And did you meet any adventures?’ said 
Dan. 

‘There are no adventures South the Wall,* 
said Parnesius. ‘The worst thing that hap¬ 
pened me was having to appear before a 
magistrate up North, where a wandering 
philosopher had jeered at the Eagles. I was 
able to show that the old man had deliberately 
blocked our road, and the magistrate told 


PUCK OF POOK’S HILL 


252 

him, out of his own Book, I believe, that^ 
whatever his God might be, he should pay 
proper respect to Caesar/ 

‘What did you do?’ said Dan. 

‘Went on. Why should I care for such 
things, my business being to reach my station? 
It took me twenty days. 

‘Of course, the farther North you go the 
emptier are the roads. At last you fetch 
clear of the forests and climb bare hills, where 
wolves howl in the ruins of our cities that have 
been. No more pretty girls; no more jolly 
magistrates who knew your Father when 
he was young, and invite you to stay with 
them; no news at the temples and way- 
stations except bad news of wild beasts. 
There’s where you meet hunters, and trappers 
for the Circuses, prodding along chained bears 
and muzzled wolves. Your pony shies at 
them, and your men laugh. 

‘The houses change from gardened villas 
to shut forts with watch-towers of grey stone, 
and great stone-walled sheepfolds, guarded 
by armed Britons of the North Shore. In the 
naked hills beyond the naked houses, where 
the shadows of the clouds play like cavalry 
charging, you see puffs of black smoke from 
the mines. The hard road goes on and on— 
and the wind sings through your helmet- 
plume—past altars to Legions and Generals 
forgotten, and broken statues of Gods and 
Heroes, and thousands of graves where the 
mountain foxes and hares peep at you. Red- 
hot in summer, freezing in winter, is that big, 
piirple heather country of broken stone. 


ON THE GREAT WALL 


15:5 


* Just when you think you are at the world’s 
end, you see a smoke from East to West as 
far as the eye can turn, and then, under it, 
also as far as the eye can stretch, houses and 
temples, shops and theatres, barracks, and 
granaries, trickling along like dice behind— 
always behind—one long, low, rising and 
falling, and hiding and showing line of towers. 
And that is the Wall!’ 

‘Ah!’ said the children taking breath. 

‘ You may well,’ said Pamesius. ‘ Old men 
who have followed the Eagles since boyhood 
say nothing in the Empire is more wonderful, 
than first sight of the Wall!’ 

‘ Is it just a Wall? Like the one round the^ 
kitchen-garden?said Dan. 

‘ No, no! It is the Wall. Along the top are. 
towers with guard-houses, small towers, be¬ 
tween. Even on the narrowest part of it. 
three men with shields can walk abreast from 
guard-house to guard-house. A little cur¬ 
tain wall, no higher than a man’s neck, runs; 
along the top of the thick wall, so that from 
a distance you see the helmets of the sentries, 
sliding back and forth like beads. Thirty 
feet high is the Wall, and on the Piets’ side, 
the North, is a ditch, strewn with blades of 
old swords and spear-heads set in wood, and 
tyres of wheels joined by chains. The Little 
People come there to steal iron for their 
arrow-heads. 

‘ But the Wall itself is not more wonderful 
than the town behind it. Long ago there 
were great ramparts and ditches on the 
South side, and no one was allowed to build 


154 


PUCK OF POOK’S HILL 


there. Now the ramparts are partly pulled 
down and built over, from end to end of the 
Wall; making a thin town eighty miles 
long. Think of it! One roaring, rioting, 
cockfighting, wolf-baiting, horse-racing town, 
from Ituna on the West to Segedunum on the 
cold eastern beach! On one side heather, 
woods and ruins where Piets hide, and on the 
other, a vast town—long like a snake, and 
wicked like a snake. Yes, a snake basking 
/beside a warm wall! 

^My Cohort, I was told, lay at Hunno, 
where the Great North Road runs through the 
'Wall into the Province of Valentia.’ Par- 
•nesius laughed scornfully. ‘The Province of 
Valentia! We followed the road, therefore, 
into Hunno town, and stood astonished. The 
place was a fair—a fair of peoples from every 
< corner of the Empire. Some were racing 
. horses: some sat in wine-shops: some watched 
dogs baiting bears, and many gathered in a 
‘ditch to see cocks fight. A boy not much 
‘Older than myself, but I could see he was 
;an Officer, reined up before me and asked 
what I w'anted. 

‘ “ My station,'' I said, and showed him my 
shield.' Parnesius held up his broad shield 
mith its three X's like letters on a beer-cask. 

‘Lucky omen!" said he. “ Your Cohort's 
the next tower to us, but they’re all at the 
cock-fight. This is a happy place. Come 
and wet the Eagles." He meanUto offer me a 
drink. 

•"“When I’ve handed over my men," I 
isaifL I felt angry and ashamed. 


ON THE GREAT WALL 


155 


* “ Oh, you’ll soon outgrow that sort of non¬ 
sense,” he answered. But don’t let me 
interfere with your hopes. Go on to the 
Statue of Roma Dea. You can’t miss it„ 
The main road into Valentia! ” and he laughed* 
and rode off. I could see the Statue not ai 
quarter of a mile away, and there I went.. 
At some time or other the Great North Road 
ran under it into Valentia; but the far end had 
been blocked up because of the Piets, and on 
the plaster a man had scratched, “Finish!” 
It was like marching into a cave. We 
grounded spears together, my little thirty, 
and it echoed in the barrel of the arch, but 
none came. There was a door at one side 
painted with our number. We prowled in, 
and I foimd a cook asleep, and ordered him’ 
to give us food. Then I climbed to the top> 
of the Wall, and looked out over the Piet 
country, and I—thought,’ said Parnesius. 
‘The bricked-up arch with “Finish!” on the 
plaster was what shook me, for I was not 
much more than a boy. ’ 

‘What a shame!’ said Una. ‘But did 

you feel happy after you’d had a good-’ 

Dan stopped her with a nudge. 

‘ Happy? ’ said Parnesius. ‘ When the men 
of the Cohort I was to command came back 
unhelmeted from the cock-fight, their birds 
under their arms, and asked me who I was? 
No, I was not happy; but I made my new 
Cohort unhappy too. ... I wrote my 
Mother I was happy, but, oh, my friends’— 
he stretched arms over bare knees—‘ I would 
not wish my worst enemy to suffer as I suf- 



156 PUCK OF POOR’S HILL 

fered through my first months on the Wall. 
Remember this : among the officers was 
scarcely one, except myself (and I thought 
I had lost the favour of Maximus, my General), 
scarcely one who had not done something of 
wrong or folly. Either he had killed a man, 
or taken money, or insulted the magistrates, 
or blasphemed the Gods, and so had been sent 
to the Wall as a hiding-place from shame or 
fear. And the men were as the officers. 
Remember, also, that the Wall was manned 
by every breed and race in the Empire. No 
two towers spoke the same tongue, or wor¬ 
shipped the same Gods. In one thing only 
we were all equal. No matter what arms we 
had used before we came to the Wall, on the 
Wall we were all archers, like the Scythians. 
The Piet cannot run away from the arrow, or 
crawl under it. He is a bowman himself. 
He knows!’ 

H suppose you were fighting Piets all the 
time, ’ said Dan. 

‘ Piets seldom fight. I never saw a fighting 
Piet for half a year. The tame Piets told 
tis they had all gone North.’ 

‘ What is a tame Piet ? ’ said Dan. 

‘ A Piet—there were many such—who 
speaks a few words of our tongue, and slips 
across the Wall to sell ponies and wolf-hounds. 
Without a horse and a dog, and a friend, man 
would perish. The Gods gave me all three, 
and there is no gift like friendship. Remem¬ 
ber this’—Pamesius turned to Dan—‘when 
you become a young man. For your fate will 
turn on the first true friend you make. 


ON THE GREAT WALL 


157 


‘He means,’ said Puck, grinning, ‘that if 
you try to make yourself a decent chap when 
you’re young, you’ll make rather decent 
friends when you grow up. If you’re a beast, 
you’ll have beastly friends. Listen to the 
Pious Pamesius on Friendship! ’ 

‘I am not pious,’ Pamesius answered, ‘but 
I know what goodness means; and my friend, 
though he was without hope, was ten thou- 
sand times better than I. Stop laughing,, 
Faun!’ ‘ 

‘Oh Youth Eternal and All-believing,” 
cried Puck, as he rocked on the branch above. 
‘Tell them about your Pertinax.’ 

‘ He was that friend the Gods sent me—the- 
boy who spoke to me when I first came. 
Little older than myself, commanding the 
Augusta Victoria Cohort on the tower next to 
us and the Numidians. In virtue he was far 
my superior.’ 

‘Then why was he on the Wall?’ Una 
asked, quickly. ‘They’d all done something 
bad. You said so yourself.’ 

‘ He was the nephew, his Father had died,, 
of a great rich man in Gaul who was not always, 
kind to his Mother. When Pertinax grew up, 
he discovered this, and so his uncle shipped 
him off, by trickery and force, to the Wall. We 
came to know each other at a ceremony in our- 
Temple—in the dark. It was the Bull Kill¬ 
ing,’ Pamesius explained to Puck. 

‘/ see,’ said Puck, and turned to the chil¬ 
dren. ‘ That’s something you wouldn’t quite 
understand. Pamesius means he met Per¬ 
tinax in church.’ 


158 PUCK OF POOK’S HILL 


‘ Yes—in the Cave we first met, and we wer® 
both raised to the Degree of Gryphons to¬ 
gether.’ Pamesius lifted his hand towards 
his neck for an instant. ‘ He had been on the 
Wall two years, and knew the Piets well. He 
taught me first how to take Heather.’ 

‘What’s that?’ said Dan. 

‘ Going out hunting in the Piet eountry with 
a tame Piet. You are quite safe so long as you 
are his guest, and wear a sprig of heather 
where it ean be seen. If you went alone you 
would surely be killed, if you were not smoth¬ 
ered first in the bogs. Only the Piets know 
their way about those blaek and hidden bogs. 
Old Alio, the one-eyed, withered little Piet 
from whom we bought our ponies, was our 
speeial friend. At first we went only to eseape 
from the terrible town, and to talk together 
about our homes. Then he showed us how 
to hunt wolves and those great red deer with 
horns like Jewish eandlestieks. The Roman- 
bom offieers rather looked down on us fbr 
doing this, but we preferred the heather to 
their amusements. Believe me,’ Parnesius 
turned again to Dan, ‘ a boy is safe from all 
things that really harm when he is astride a 
pony or after a deer. Do you remember, O 
Faun,’ he turned to Puck, ‘the little altar I 
built to the Sylvan Pan by the pine-forest 
beyond the brook? ’ 

‘ Which? The stone one with the line from 
Xenophon?’ said Puck, in quite a new voice. 
' ‘No. What do I know of Xenophon? 
That was Pertinax—after he had shot his 
first mountain-hare with an arrow-—by chancel 


ON THE GREAT WALL 


159 


Mine I made of round pebbles in memory of 
my first bear. It took me one happy day to 
build.* Pamesius faced the children quickly. 

‘ And that was how we lived on the Wall for 
two years—a little scuffling with the Picts^ 
and a great deal of hunting with old Alio in 
the Piet country. He called us his children 
sometimes, and we were fond of him and his 
barbarians, though we never let them paint 
us Piet fashion. The marks endure till you 
die.* 

‘How’s it done?’ said Dan. ‘An3rthing 
like tattooing?* 

‘ They prick the skin till the blood runs, and 
mb in coloured juices. Alio was painted blue,, 
green, and red from his forehead to his ankles. 
He vSaid it was part of his religion. He told us 
about his religion (Pertinax was always in¬ 
terested in such things), and as we came to 
know him well, he told us what was happening* 
in Britain behind the Wall. Many things 
took place behind us in those days. And, by 
the Light of the Sun,* said Pamesius, earn¬ 
estly, ‘there was not much that those little 
people did not know! He told me when 
Maximus crossed over to Gaul, after he had 
made himself Emperor of Britain, and what 
troops and emigrants he had taken with him. 
We did not get the news on the Wall till 
fifteen days later. He told me what troops 
Maximus was taking out of Britain every 
month to help him to conquer Gaul; and I 
always found the numbers as he said. Won- 
derfiil! And I tell another strange thing!* 

He jointed his hands across his knees, and 


i6o PUCK OF POOR’S HILL 

leaned his head on the curve of the shield 
behind him. 

‘Late in the summer, when the first frosts 
begin and the Piets kill their bees, we three 
rode out after wolf with some new hounds. 
Rutilianus, our General, had given us ten 
days’ leave, and we had pushed beyond the 
Second Wall—beyond the Province of Valen- 
tia—into the higher hills, where there are not 
even any of Rome’s old ruins. We killed a 
she-wolf before noon, and while Alio was 
skinning her he looked up and said to me, 
“ When you are Captain of the Wall, my child, 
you won’t be able to do this any more! ” 

‘ I might as well have been made Prefect of 
Lower Gaul, so I laughed and said, “ Wait till 
I am Captain.” “ No don’t, wait,” said Alio. 
“ Take my advice and go home—both of you.” 
“We have no homes,” said Pertinax. “You 
know that as well as we do. We’re finished 
men—thumbs down against both of us. Only 
men without hope would risk their necks on 
your ponies.” The old man laughed one of 
those short Piet laughs—like a fox barking 
on a frosty night. “I’m fond of you two,” 
he said. “Besides, I’ve taught you what 
little you know about hunting. Take my 
advice and go home.” 

‘“We can’t,” I said. “I’m out of favour 
with my General, for one thing; and for an¬ 
other, Pertinax has an uncle.” 

‘ “ I don’t know about his uncle,” said Alio, 
“ but the trouble with you, Pamesius, is that 
your General thinks well of you.” 

‘“Roma Dea!” said Pertinax, sitting up 


ON THE GREAT WALL 


i6i 

“ What can you guess what Maximus thinks, 
you old horse-coper?” 

‘Just then (you know how near the brutes 
creep when one is eating?) a great dog-wolf 
jumped out behind us, and away our rested 
hounds tore after him, with us at their tails. 
He ran us far out of any country we’d ever 
heard of, straight as an arrow till sunset, 
towards the sunset. We came at last to long 
capes stretching into winding waters, and on 
a grey beach below us we saw ships drawn up. 
Forty-seven we counted—not Roman galleys 
but the raven-winged ships from the North 
where Rome does not rule. Men moved in 
the ships, and the sun flashed on their helmets 
—winged helmets of the red-haired men from 
the North where Rome does not rule. We 
watched, and we counted, and we wondered; 
for though we had heard rumours concerning 
these Winged Hats, as the Piets called them, 
never before had we looked upon them. 

‘“Come away! Come away!” said Alio. 
“My Heather won’t protect you here. We 
shall all be killed!” His legs trembled like 
his voice. Back we went—back across the 
heather under the moon, till it was nearly 
morning, and our poor beasts stumbled on 
some ruins. 

‘When we woke, very stiff and cold. Alio 
was mixing the meal and water. One does 
not light fires in the Piet country except near 
a village. The little men are always signal¬ 
ling to each other with smokes, and a strange 
smoke brings them out buzzing like bees. 
They can sting, too! 


i 62 


PUCK OF POOR’S HILL 


'“What we saw last night was a trading- 
station,” said Alio. “ Nothing but a trading- 
station.” 

‘ “ I do not like lies on an empty stomach,” 
said Pertinax. “ I suppose” (he had eyes like 
an eagle’s), “I suppose that is a trading-station 
also?” He pointed to a smoke far off on a 
hill-top, ascending in what we call the Piet’s 
Call:—Puff—double-puff: double-puff—puff! 
They make it by raising and dropping a wet 
hide on a fire. 

‘“No,” said Alio, pushing the platter back 
into the bag. ’“That is for you and me. 
Your fate is fixed. Come.” 

‘We came. When one takes Heather, one 
must obey one’s Piet—but that wretched 
smoke was twenty miles distant, well over on 
the east coast, and the day was as hot as a bath. 

‘ “Whatever happens,” said Alio, while our 
ponies grunted along, “ I want you to remem¬ 
ber me. ’ ’ 

‘ “ I shall not forget,” said Pertinax. “ You 
have cheated me out of my breakfast.” 

‘ “ What is a handful of crushed oats to a 
Roman?” he said. Then he laughed his 
laugh that was not a laugh. “ What would 
you do if you were a handful of oats being 
crushed between the upper and lower stones 
of a mill?” 

‘“I’m Pertinax, not a riddle-guesser,” said 
Pertinax. 

‘“You’re a fool,” said Alio. “Your Gods 
and my Gods are threatened by strange Gods, 
and all you can do is to laugh.” 

‘ “ Threatened men live long,” I said. 


ON THE GREAT WALL 


163 

*''1 pray the Gods that may be true,” he 
said. ” But I ask you again not to forget me.” 

‘ We climbed the last hot hill and looked 
out on the eastern sea, three or four miles off. 
There was a small sailing-galley of the North 
Gaul pattern at anchor, her landing-plank 
down and her sail half up; and below us, 
alone in a hollow, holding his pony, sat Maxi¬ 
mus, Emperor of Britain! He was dressed 
like a hunter, and he leaned on his little stick; 
but I knew that back as far as I could see it, 
and I told Pertinax. 

‘“You’re madder than Alio!” he said. 
“ It must be the sun! ” 

‘ Maximus never stirred till we stood before 
him. Then he looked me up and down, and 
said: “Hungry again? It seems to be my 
destiny to feed you whenever we meet. I 
have food here. Alio shall cook it.” 

‘“No,” said Alio. “A Prince in his own 
land does not wait on wandering Emperors. 
I feed my two children without asking your 
leave.” He began to blow up the ashes. 

‘“I was wrong,” said Pertinax. “We are 
all mad. Speak up, O Madman called Em¬ 
peror! ” 

‘Maximus smiled his terrible tight-lipped 
smile, but two years on the Wall do not make 
a man afraid of mere looks. So I was not 
afraid. 

‘ “ I meant you, Pamesius, to live and die 
an Officer of the Wall,” said Maximus. “ But 
it seems from these,” he fumbled in his breast, 
“ you can think as well as draw.” He pulled 
out a roll of letters I had written to my 


164 PUCK OF POOR’S HILL 


people, full of drawings of Piets, and bears 
and men I had met on the Wall. Mother and 
my sister always liked my pictures. 

‘ He handed me one that I had called Max¬ 
imus’s Soldiers.” It showed a row of fat 
wine-skins, and our old Doctor of the Hunno 
hospital snuffing at them. Each time that 
Maximus had taken troops out of Britain to 
help him to conquer Gaul, he used to send 
the garrisons more wine—to keep them quiet, 
I suppose. On the Wall, we always called a 
wine-skin a “Maximus.” Oh, yes; and I 
had drawn them in Imperial helmets! 

‘“Not long since,” he went on, “men’s 
names were sent up to Caesar for smaller 
jokes than this.” 

‘“True, Caesar,” said Pertinax; “but you 
forget that was before I, your friend’s friend, 
became such a good spear-thrower.” 

‘ He did not actually point his hunting spear 
at Maximus, but balanced it on his palm—so! 

‘ “ I was speaking of time past,” said Maxi¬ 
mus, never fluttering an eyelid. “ Nowadays 
one is only too pleased to find boys who can 
think for themselves, and their friends.” He 
nodded at Pertinax. “Your Father lent me 
the letters, Pamesius, so you run no risk 
from me.” 

‘“None whatever,” said Pertinax, and 
rubbed the spear-point on his sleeve. 

“‘I have been forced to reduce the garrisons 
in Britain, because I need troops in Gaul. 
Now I come to take troops from the Wall 
itself,” said he. 

“‘I wish you joy of us,” said Pertinax. 


ON THE GREAT WALL 


i6s 

“We’re the last sweepings of the Empire— 
the men without hope. Myself, I’d sooner 
trust condemned criminals.” 

“‘You think so?” he said, quite seriously. 
“But it will only be till I win Gaul. One 
must always risk one’s life, or one’s soul, or 
one’s peace—or some little thing.” 

‘ Alio passed round the fire with the sizzling 
deer’s meat. He served us two first. 

‘“Ah!” said Maximus, waiting his turn. 
“I perceive you are in your own country. 
Well, you deserve it. They tell me you have 
quite a following among the Piets, Pamesius.” 

“‘I have hunted with them,” I said. 
“Maybe I have a few friends among the 
Heather.” 

‘ “ He is the only armoured man of you all 
who understands us,” said Alio, and he began 
a long speech about our virtues, and how we 
had saved one of his grandchildren from a 
wolf the year before.’ 

‘ Had you ? ’ said Una. 

‘Yes; but that was neither here nor there. 
The little green man orated like a—like Cicero. 
He made us out to be magnificent fellows. 
Maximus never took his eyes off our faces. 

‘“Enough,” he said. “I have heard Alio 
on you. I wish to hear you on the Piets. 

‘ I told him as much as I knew, and Pertinax 
helped me out. There is never harm in a 
Piet if you but take the trouble to find out 
what he wants. Their real grievance against 
us came from our burning their heather. The 
whole garrison of the Wall moved out twice a 
year, and solemnly burned the heather for 


PUCK OF POOKAS HILL 


166 

ten miles North. Rutilianus, our General, 
called it clearing the country. The Piets, of 
course, scampered away, and all we did was 
to destroy their bee-bloom in the summer, and 
ruin their sheep-food in the spring. 

‘ “True, quite true,” said Alio. “How can 
we make our holy heather-wine, if you bum 
our bee-pasture?” 

‘ We talked long, Maximus asking keen 
questions that showed he knew much and 
had thought more about the Piets. He said 
presently to me: “If I gave you the old 
Province of Valentia to govern, could you 
keep the Piets contented till I won Gaul? 
Stand away, so that you do not see Allots 
face; and speak your own thoughts. 

‘“No,” I said. “You cannot re-make that 
Province. The Piets have been free too long. ’ ’ 

‘ “ Leave them their village councils, and 
let them furnish their own soldiers,” he said. 
“You, I am sure, would hold the reins very 
lightly.” 

‘“Even then, no,” I said. “At least not 
now. They have been too oppressed by us 
to trust anything with a Roman name for 
years and years.” 

‘ I heard old Alio behind me mutter: “ Good 
child!” 

‘“Then what do you recommend,” said 
Maximus, “ to keep the North quiet till I win 
Gaul?” 

'“Leave the Piets alone,” I said. “Stop 
the heather-burning at once, and—they are 
improvident little animals—send them a ship¬ 
load or two of com now and then.” 


ON THE GREAT WALL 


167 


‘ “ Their own men must distribute it—not 
some cheating Greek accountant,” said Per- 
tinax. 

‘“Yes, and allow them to come to our 
hospitals when they are sick,” I said. 

‘“Surely they would die first,” said Maxi¬ 
mus. 

“‘Not if Parnesius brought them in,” said 
x\llo. “ I could show you twenty wolf-bitten, 
bear-clawed Piets within twenty miles of here. 
But Parnesius must stay with them in Hos¬ 
pital, else they would go mad with fear.” 

/ see,” said Maximus. “ Like everything 
else in the world, it is one man's work. You, 
I think, are that one man.” 

‘ “ Pertinax and I are one,” I said. 

“‘As you please, so long as you work. 
Now, Alio, you know that I mean your people 
no harm. Leave us to talk together,” said 
Maximus. 

‘“No need!” said Alio. “I am the corn 
between the upper and lower millstones. I 
must know what the lower millstone means 
to do. These boys have spoken the truth as 
far as they know it. I, a Prince, will tell you 
the rest. I am troubled about the Men of 
the North.” He squatted like a hare in the 
heather, and looked over his shoulder. 

‘“I also,” said Maximus, “or I should not 
be here.” 

‘“Listen,” said Alio. “Long and long 
ago the Winged Hats”—he meant the North¬ 
men—“ came to our beaches and said, ‘ Rome 
falls! Push her down!’ We fought you. 
You sent men. We were beaten. After 


i68 


PUCK OF POOR’S HILL 


that we said to the Winged Hats, ‘You are 
liars! Make our men alive that Rome killed, 
and we will believe you.’ They went away 
ashamed. Now they come back bold, and 
they tell the old tale, which we begin to be¬ 
lieve—that Rome falls!” 

‘ “ Give me three years ’ peace on the Wall,” 
cried Maximus, “ and I will show you and all 
the ravens how they lie!” 

‘“Ah, I wish it too! I wish to save what 
is left of the corn from the millstones. But 
you shoot us Piets when we come to borrow 
a little iron from the Iron Ditch; you burn 
our heather, which is all our crop; you trouble 
us with your great catapults. Then you 
hide behind the Wall, and scorch us with 
Greek fire. How can I keep my young men 
from listening to the Winged Hats—in winter 
especially, when we are hungry ? My young 
men will say, ‘Rome can neither fight nor 
rule. She is taking her men out of Britain. 
The Winged Hats will help us to push down 
the Wall. Let us show them the secret roads 
across the bogs.’ Do I want that? No!” 
He spat like an adder. “/ would keep the 
secrets of my people though I were burned 
alive. My two children here have spoken 
truth. Leave us Piets alone. Comfort us, 
and cherish us, and feed us from far off— 
with the hand behind your back. Parnesius 
understands us. Let him have rule on the 
Wall, and I will hold my young men quiet 
for”—he ticked it off on his fingers—“one 
year easily: the next year not so easily: the 
third year, perhaps! See, I give you three 


ON THE GREAT WALL 169 

years. If then you do not show us that Rome 
is strong in men and terrible in arms, the 
Winged Hats, I tell you, will sweep down the 
Wall from either sea till they meet in the 
middle, and you will go. I shall not grieve 
over that, but well I know tribe never helps 
tribe except for one price. We Piets will go 
too. The Winged Hats will grind us to this!'' 
He tossed a handful of dust in the air. 

“‘Oh, Roma Deal” said Maximus, half 
aloud. “ It is always one man’s work— 
always and everywhere!” 

‘“And one man’s life,” said Alio. “You 
are Emperor, but not a God. You may die.” 

‘“I have thought of that, too,” said he. 
“Very good. If this wind holds, I shall be 
at the East end of the Wall by morning. To¬ 
morrow, then, I shall see you two when I 
inspect; and I will make you Captains of 
the Wall for this work.” 

‘“One instant, Caesar,” said Pertinax. 
“ All men have their price. I am not bought 
yet.” 

‘ “Do you also begin to bargain so early?” 
said Maximus. “Well?” 

‘ “ Give me justice against my uncle Icenus, 
the Duumvir of Divio in Gaul,” he said. 

‘“Only a life? I thought it would be 
money or an office. Certainly you shall 
have him. Write his name on these tablets— 
on the red side; the other is for the living!” 
And Maximus held out his tablets. 

‘ “ He is of no use to me dead,” said Pertinax. 
“ My mother is a widow. I am far off. I am 
not sure he pays her all her dowry.” 


170 


PUCK OF POOK’S HILL 


‘ “ No matter. My arm is reasonably long. 
We will look through your uncle’s accounts in 
due time. Now, farewell till to-morrow, O 
Captains of the Wall!” 

‘ We saw him grow small across the heather 
as he walked to the galley. There were Piets, 
scores, each side of him, hidden behind stones. 
He never looked left or right. He sailed 
away Southerly, full spread before the evening 
breeze, and when we had watched him out 
to sea, we were silent. We understood Earth 
bred few men like to this man. 

‘ Presently Alio brought the ponies and 
held them for us to mount—a thing he had 
never done before. 

“‘Wait awhile,” said Pertinax, and he 
made a little altar of cut turf, and strewed 
heather-bloom atop, and laid upon it a letter 
from a girl in Gaul. 

“‘What do you do, O my friend?” I 
said. 

‘“I sacrifice to my dead youth,” he an¬ 
swered, and, when the fiames had consumed 
the letter, he ground them out with his heel. 
Then we rode back to that Wall of which we 
were to be Captains.’ 

Pamesius stopped. The children sat still, 
not even asking if that were all the tale. 
Puck beckoned, and pointed the way out of 
the wood. ‘’Sorry,’ he whispered, ‘but you 
must go now.’ 

‘We haven’t made him angry, have we?’ 
said Una. ‘He looks so far off, and—and— 
thinky.’ 

‘ Bless your heart, no. Wait till to-morrow. 


ON THE GREAT WALL 


171 

It won’t be long. Remember, you’ve been 
playing “ Lays of Ancient Rome.''' 

And as soon as they had scrambled through 
their gap, where Oak, Ash and Thom grow, 
that was all they remembered 




A SONG TO MITHRAS 


Mithras, God of the Morning, our trumpets 
waken the Wall! 

' Rome is above the Nations, but Thou art over 
alLr 

Now as the names are answered and the guards 
are marched away, 

Mithras, also a soldier, give us strength for 
the day I 

Mithras, God of the Noontide, the heather 
swims in the heat. 

Our helmets scorch our foreheads; our sandals 
burn our feet! 

Now in the ungirt hour; now ere we blink and 
drowse, 

Mithras, also a soldier, keep us true to our vows f 

Mithras, God of the Sunset, low on the Western 
main, 

Thou descending immortal, immortal to rise 
again ! 

Now when the watch is ended, now when the 
wine is drawn, 

Mithras, also a soldier, keep us pure till the 
dawn ! 

Mithras, God of the Midnight, here where the 
great bull lies, 

Look on thy children in darkness. Oh take 
our sacrifice! 

Many roads Thou hast fashioned: all of them 
lead to the Light, 

Mithras, also a soldier, teach us to die aright! 
173 


1 

j 




I 

I 

I 






THE WINGED HATS 



THE WINGED HATS 


T he next day happened to be what they 
called a Wild Afternoon. Father and 
Mother went out to pay calls; Miss Blake 
went for a ride on her bicycle, and they were 
left all alone till eight o’clock. 

When they had seen their dear parents and 
their dear preceptress politely off the premises 
they got a cabbage-leaf full of raspberries 
from the gardener, and a Wild Tea from Ellen. 
They ate the raspberries to prevent their 
squashing, and they meant to divide the 
cabbage-leaf with Three Cows down at the 
Theatre, but they came across a dead hedge¬ 
hog which they simply had to bury, and the 
leaf was too useful to waste. 

Then they went on to the Forge and found 
old Hobden the hedger at home with his son 
the Bee Boy who is not quite right in his head, 
but who can pick up swarms of bees in his 
naked hands; and the Bee Boy told them 
the rh3mie about the slow-worm:— 

‘ If I had eyes as I could see, 

No mortal man would trouble me/ 


They all had tea together by the hives, and 
Hobden said the loaf-cake which Ellen had 
given them was almost as good as what his 
wife used to make, and he showed them how 

177 


178 PUCK OF POOR’S HILL 

to set a wire at the right height for hares. 
They knew about rabbits already. 

Then they climbed up Long Ditph into the 
tower end of Far Wood. This is sadder and 
darker than the ‘Volaterrae’ end because of 
an old marlpit full of black water, where 
weepy, hairy moss hangs round the stumps 
of the willows and alders. But the birds 
come to perch on the dead branches, and 
Hobden says that the bitter willow-water is 
a sort of medicine for sick animals. 

They sat down on a felled oak-trunk in 
the shadows of the beech undergrowth, and 
were looping the wires Hobden had given 
them, when they saw Parnesius. 

‘ How quietly you came! ’ said Una, moving 
up to make room. ‘Where’s Puck?’ 

‘The Faun and I have disputed whether it 
is better that I should tell you all my tale, or 
leave it untold,’ he replied. 

‘ I only said that if he told it as it happened 
you wouldn’t understand it,’ said Puck, 
jumping up like a squirrel from behind the 
log. 

‘ I don’t understand all of it, ’ said Una, 
‘but I like hearing about the little Piets.’ 

‘What I can’t understand,’ said Dan, ‘is 
how Maximus knew all about the Piets when 
he was over in Gaul.’ 

‘ He who makes himself Emperor an3nvhere 
must know everything, ever3rwhere,’ said 
Parnesius. ‘We had this much from Maxi¬ 
mus’ mouth after the Games.’ 

‘Games? What games?’ said Dan. 

Parnesius stretched his arm out stiffly. 


THE WINGED HATS 


179 


thumb pointed to the ground. ‘Gladiators! 
That sort of game,’ he said. ‘There were 
two days’ Games in his honour when he landed 
all unexpected at Segedunum on the East 
end of the Wall. Yes, the day after we had 
met him we held two days’ games; but I think 
the greatest risk was run, not by the poor 
wretches on the sand, but by Maximus. In 
the old days the Legions kept silence before 
their Emperor. So did not we! You could 
hear the solid roar run West along the Wall as 
his chair was carried rocking through the 
crowds. The garrison beat round him— 
clamouring, clowning, asking for pay, for 
change of quarters, for anything that came 
into their wild heads. That chair was like 
a little boat among waves, dipping and falling, 
but always rising again after one had shut 
the eyes.’ Parnesius shivered. 

‘ Were they angry with him? ’ said Dan. 

‘ No more angry than wolves in a cage when 
their trainer walks among them. If he had 
turned his back an instant, or for an instant 
had ceased to hold their eyes, there would 
have been another Emperor made on the 
Wall that hour. Was it not so. Faun?’ 

‘So it was. So it always will be,’ said 
Puck. 

‘Late in the evening his messenger came 
for us, and we followed to the Temple of 
Victory, where he lodged with Rutilianus, 
the General of the Wall. I had hardly seen 
the General before, but he always gave me 
leave when I wished to take Heather. He 
was a great glutton, and kept five Asian cooks. 


i8o PUCK OF POOR’S HILL 

and he came of a family that believed in 
oracles. We could smell his good dinner 
when we entered, but the tables were empty. 
He lay snorting on a couch. Maximus sat 
apart among long rolls of accounts. Then 
the doors were shut. 

“‘These are your men,” said Maximus to 
the General, who propped his eye-comers 
open with his gouty fingers, and stared at us 
like a fish. 

“‘I shall know them again, Caesar,” said 
Rutilianus. 

‘ “ Very good,” said Maximus. “ Now hear! 
You are not to move man or shield on the 
Wall except as these boys shall tell you. You 
will do nothing, except eat, without their 
permission. They are the head and arms. 
You are the belly!” 

‘ “As Caesar pleases,” the old man grunted. 
“ If my pay and profits are not cut, you may 
make my Ancestors’ Oracle my master. 
Rome has been! Rome has been! ” Then he 
turned on his side to sleep. 

“‘He has it,” said Maximus. “We will 
get to what I need.” 

‘He unrolled full copies of the number of 
men and supplies on the Wall—down to the 
sick that very day in Hunno Hospital. Oh, 
but I groaned when his pen marked off de¬ 
tachment after detachment of our best—of 
our least worthless men ! He took two tow¬ 
ers of our Scythians, two of our North Brit¬ 
ish auxiliaries, two Numidian cohorts, the 
Dacians all, and half the Belgians. It was 
like an eagle pecking a carcass. 


THE WINGED HATS i8i 

‘‘*And now, how many catapults have 
you?” He turned up a new list, but Per- 
tinax laid his open hand there. 

‘“No, Caesar,” said he. “Do not tempt 
the Gods too far. Take men, or engines, but 
not both; else we refuse. ” ’ 

‘Engines?’ said Una. 

‘ The catapults of the Wall—huge things 
forty feet high to the head—firing nets of 
raw stone or forged bolts. Nothing can 
stand against them. He left us our catapults 
at last, but he took a Caesar’s half of our men 
without pity. We were a shell when he rolled 
up the lists! 

‘ “ Hail, Caesar! We, about to die, salute 
you ! ” said Pertinax, laughing. “ If any 
enemy even leans against the Wall now, it 
will tumble.” 

‘“Give me the three years Alio spoke of,” 
he answered, “and you shall have twenty 
thousand men of your own choosing up here. 
But now it is a gamble—a game played 
against the Gods, and the stakes are Britain, 
Gaul, and perhaps, Rome. You play on my 
side?” 

‘“We will play, Cassar,” I said for I had 
never met a man like this man. 

‘“Good. To-morrow,” said he, “I pro¬ 
claim you Captains of the Wall before the 
troops.” 

‘ So we went into the moonlight, where they 
were cleaning the ground after the Games. 
We saw great Roma Dea atop of the Wall, 
the frost on her helmet, and her spear pointed 
towards the North Star. We saw the twinkle 


i82 


PUCK OF POOR’S HILL 


of night-fires all along the guard-towers, and 
the line of the black catapults growing smaller 
and smaller in the distance. All these things 
we knew till we were weary; but that night 
they seemed very strange to us, because the 
next day we knew we were to be their masters. 

‘The men took the news well; but when 
Maximus went away with half our strength, 
and we had to spread ourselves into the 
emptied towers, and the townspeople com¬ 
plained that trade would be ruined, and the 
Autumn gales blew—it was dark days for us 
two. Here Pertinax was more than my 
right hand. Being bom and bred among the 
great country-houses in Gaul, he knew the 
proper words to address to all—from Roman- 
born Centurions to those dogs of the Third— 
the Libyans. And he spoke to each as though 
that man were as high-minded as himself. 
Now I saw so strongly what things were 
needed to be done, that I forgot things are 
only accomplished by means of men. That 
was a mistake. 

‘ I feared nothing from the Piets, at least 
for that year, but Alio warned me that the 
Winged Hats would soon come in from the 
sea at each end of the Wall to prove to the 
Piets how weak we were. So I made ready 
in haste, and none too soon. I shifted our 
best men to the ends of the Wall, and set up 
screened catapults by the beach. The Winged 
Hats would drive in before the snow-squalls— 
ten or twenty boats at a time—on Segedunum 
or Ituna, according as the wind blew. 

‘Now a ship coming in to land men must 


THE WINGED HATS 


i 33 

fiirl her sail. If you wait till you see her men 
gather up the sail’s foot, your catapults can 
jerk a net of loose stones (bolts only cut 
through the cloth) into the bag of it. Then 
she turns over, and the sea makes everything 
clean again. A few men may come ashore, 
but very few. ... It was not hard work, 
except the waiting on the beach in blowing 
sand and snow. And that was how we dealt 
with the Winged Hats that winter. 

‘ Early in the Spring, when the East winds 
blow like skinning-knives, they gathered again 
off the East end with many ships. Alio told 
me they would never rest till they had taken 
a tower in open fight. Certainly they fought 
in the open. We dealt with them thoroughly 
through a long day: and when all was finished, 
one man dived clear of the wreckage of his 
ship, and swam towards shore. I waited, 
and a wave tumbled him at my feet. 

‘ As I stooped, I saw he wore such a medal 
as I wear.’ Parnesius raised his hand to his 
neck. ‘Therefore, when he could speak, I 
addressed him a certain Question which can 
only be answered in a certain manner. He 
answered with the necessary Word—the Word 
that belongs to the Degree of Gryphons in the 
science of Mithras my God. I put my shield 
over him till he could stand up. You see I 
am not short, but he was a head taller than I. 
He said: “What now?” I said: “At your 
pleasure, my brother, to stay or go.” 

‘He looked out across the surf. There re¬ 
mained one ship unhurt, beyond range of our 
catapults. I checked the catapults and he 


i 84 


PUCK OF POOK’S HILL 


waved her in. She came as a hound comes 
to a master. When she was yet a hundred 
paces from the beach, he flung back his hair, 
and swam out. They hauled him in. and 
went away. I knew that those who worship 
Mithras are many and of all races, so I did 
not think much more upon the matter. 

' A month later I saw Alio with his horses 
—by the Temple of Pan, O Faun!—and he 
gave me a great necklace of gold studded 
with coral. 

' At first I thought it was a bribe from some 
tradesman in the town—meant for old Rutilia- 
nus. “ Nay,” said Alio. “ This is a gift from 
Amal, that Winged Hat whom you saved on 
the beach. He says you are a Man.’ 

‘ “ He is a Man, too. Tell him I can wear 
his gift,” I answered. 

‘ “ Oh, Amal is a young fool; but, speaking 
as sensible men, your Emperor is doing such 
great things in Gaul that the Winged Hats are 
anxious to be his friends, or, better still, the 
friends of his servants. They think you and 
Pertinax could lead them to victories.” Alio 
looked at me like a one-eyed raven. 

‘ “Alio,” I said, “you are the corn between 
the two millstones. Be content if they 
grind evenly, and don’t thrust your hand 
between them.” 

'“I?” said Alio. “I hate Rome and the 
Winged Hats equally; but if the Winged Hats 
thought that some day you and Pertinax 
might join them against Maximus, they would 
leave you in peace while you considered. 
Time is what we need—you and I and Maxi- 


THE WINGED HATS 


185 

rn Let me carry a pleasant message back 
tu u.ie Winged Hats—somiething for them to 
make a council over. We barbarians are all 
alike. We sit up half the night to discuss 
anything a Roman says. Eh?” 

‘ “ We have no men. We must fight with 
words." said Pertinax. “Leave it to Alio 
and me." 

‘ So Alio carried word back to the Winged 
Hats that we would not fight them if they did 
not fight us; and they (I think they were a 
little tired of losing men in the sea) agreed to 
a sort of truce. I believe Alio, who being a 
horse-dealer loved lies, also told them we 
might some day rise against Maximus as 
Maximus had risen against Rome. 

‘ Indeed, they permitted the corn-ships 
which I sent to the Piets to pass North that 
season without harm. Therefore the Piets 
were well fed that winter, and since they were 
in some sort my children, I was glad of it. 
We had only two thousand men on the Wall, 
and I wrote many times to Maximus and 
begged—prayed—him to send me only one 
cohort of my old North British troops. He 
could not spare them. He needed them to 
win more victories in Gaul. 

‘Then came news that he had defeated and 
slain the Emperor Gratian, and thinking he 
must now be secure, I wrote again for men. 
He answered: “ You will learn that I have at 
last settled accounts with the pup Gratian. 
There was no need that he should have died, 
but he became confused and lost his head, 
which is a bad thing to befall any Emperor. 


i86 


PUCK OF POOK’S HILL 


Tell your Father I am content to drive two 
mules only; for unless my old General’s son 
thinks himself destined to destroy me, I shall 
rest Emperor of Gaul and Britain, and then 
you, my two children, will presently get all 
the men you need. Just now I can spare 
none. ” ’ 

‘What did he mean by his General’s son?’ 
said Dan. 

‘He meant Theodosius Emperor of Rome, 
who was the son of Theodosius the General 
under whom Maximus had fought in the old 
Piet War. The two men never loved each 
other, and when Gratian made the younger 
Theodosius Emperor of the East (at least, so 
I’ve heard), Maximus carried on the war 
to the second generation. It was his fate, and 
it was his fall. But Theodosius the Emperor 
is a good man. As I know.’ Parnesius was 
silent for a moment and then continued. 

‘ I wrote back to Maximus that, though we 
had peace on the Wall, I should be happier 
with a few more men and some new catapults. 
He answered: “You must live a little longer 
under the shadow of my victories, till I can 
see what young Theodosius intends. He may 
welcome me as a brother-Emperor, or he may 
be preparing an army. In either case I can¬ 
not spare men just now. ” ’ 

‘ But he was always saying that,’ cried Una. 

‘It was true. He did not make excuses; 
but thanks, as he said, to the news of his 
victories, we had no trouble on the Wall for a 
long, long time. The Piets grew fat as their 
own sheep among the heather, and as many 


THE WINGED HATS 


187 


of my men as lived were well exercised in 
their weapons. Yes, the Wall looked strong. 
For myself, I knew how weak we were. I 
knew that if even a false rumour of any defeat 
to Maximus broke loose among the Winged 
Hats, they might come down in earnest, and 
then—the Wall must go! For the Piets I 
never cared, but in those years I learned some¬ 
thing of the strength of the Winged Hats. 
They increased their strength every day, but 
I coiild not increase my men. Maximus had 
emptied Britain behind us, and I felt myself 
to be a man with a rotten stick standing before 
a broken fence to turn bulls. 

‘Thus, my friends, we lived on the Wall, 
waiting—^waiting—^waiting for the men that 
Maximus never sent 

* Presently he wrote that he was preparing 
an army against Theodosius. He wrote—► 
and Pertinax read it over my shoulder in our 
quarters: **Tell your Father that my destiny 
orders me to drive three mules or he torn in pieces 
by them. I hope within a year to finish with 
Theodosius, son of Theodosius, once and for all. 
Then you shall have Britain to rule, and Per¬ 
tinax, if he chooses, Gaul. To-day I wish 
strongly you were with me to heat my Auxiliaries 
into shape. Do not, I pray you, believe any 
rumour of my sickness. I have a little evil in 
my old body which I shall cure by riding swiftly 
into Rome. ” 

‘Said Pertinax: “It is finished with Maxi¬ 
mus! He writes as a man without hope. I, 
a man without hope, can see this. What 
does he add at the bottom of the roll? ' Tell 



i88 


PUCK OF POOK’S HILL 


Pertinax I have met his late Uncle ^ the Duumvh 
of Divio, and that he accounted to me quite 
truthfully for all his Mother's monies. I have 
sent her with a fitting escort, for she is the mother 
of a hero, to Niccea, where the climate is warm. * 

‘“That is proof!” said Pertinax. “Nicasa 
is not far by sea from Rome. A woman 
there could take ship and fly to Rome in time 
of war. Yes, Maximus foresees his death, 
and is fulfllling his promises one by one. But 
I am glad my Uncle met him.”' 

‘ “You think blackly to-day?’ I asked. 

‘“I think truth. The Gods weary of the 
play we have played against them. Theodo¬ 
sius will destroy Maximus. It is finished I ’ 

‘“Will you write him that?” I said. 

‘ “ See what I shall write, ” he answered, and 
he took pen and wrote a letter cheerful as 
the light of day, tender as a woman’s and 
full of jests. Even I, reading over his shoul¬ 
der, took comfort from it till—I saw his face! 

‘“And now,” he said, sealing it, “we be 
two dead men, my brother. Let us go to the 
Temple.” 

‘We prayed awhile to Mithras, where we 
had many times prayed before. After that 
we lived day by day among evil rumours till 
winter came again. 

‘ It happened one morning that we rode to 
the East Shore, and found on the beach a 
fair-haired man, half frozen, bound to some 
broken planks. Turning him over, we saw 
by his belt-buckle that he was a Goth of an 
Eastern Legion. Suddenly he opened his 
eyes and cried loudly: “He is dead! The 


THE WINGED HATS 


189 

letters were with me, but the Winged Hats 
sunk the ship.” So saying, he died between 
our hands. 

‘We asked not who was dead. We knew! 
We raced before the driving snow to Hunno, 
thinking perhaps Alio might be there. We 
found him already at our stables, and he saw 
by our faces what we had heard. 

‘“It was in a tent by the Sea,” he stam¬ 
mered. “He was beheaded by Theodosius. 
He sent a letter to you, written while he waited 
to be slain. The Winged Hats met the ship 
and took it. The news is running through 
the heather like fire. Blame me not I I cannot 
hold back my young men any more.” 

‘ “ I would we could say as much for our 
men,” said Pertinax, laughing. “But, Gods 
be praised, they cannot run away.” 

‘“What do you do?” said Alio. “I bring 
an order—a message—from the Winged Hats 
that you join them with your men, and march 
South to plunder Britain.” 

‘“It grieves me,” said Pertinax, “but we 
are stationed here to stop that thing.” 

‘ “ If I carry back such an answer they will 
kill me.” said Alio. “I always promised the 
Winged Hats that you would rise when 
Maximus fell. I—I did not think he could 
fall.” 

‘ “ Alas! my poor barbarian,” said Pertinax, 
still laughing. ‘‘Well, you have sold us too 
many good ponies to be thrown back to your 
friends. We will make you a prisoner, al¬ 
though you are an ambassador.” 

‘ “ Yes, that will be best,” said Alio, holding 


190 


PUCK OF POOK'S HILL 


out a halter. We bound him lightly, for he 
was an old man. 

‘ “ Presently the Winged Hats may come 
to look for you, and that will give us more 
time. See how the habit of playing for time 
sticks to a man ! ” said Pertinax, as he tied 
the rope. 

‘ “ No,” I said. “ Time may help. If Maxi¬ 
mus wrote us letters while he was a prisoner, 
Theodosius must have sent the ship that 
brought it. If he can send ships, he can send 
men. ’ ’ 

‘ “ How will that profit us? ” said Pertinax. 
'‘We serve Maximus, not Theodosius. Even 
if by some miracle of the Gods Theodosius 
down South sent and saved the Wall, we 
could not expect more than the death Maxi¬ 
mus died.” 

‘ “ It concerns us to defend the Wall, no 
matter what Emperor dies, or makes die,” 
I said. 

‘ “ That is worthy of your brother the 
philosopher,” said Pertinax. “Myself I am 
without hope, so I do not say solemn and 
stupid things! Rouse the Wall!” 

‘We armed the Wall from end to end; we 
told the officers that there was a rumour 
of Maximus’s death which might bring down 
the Winged Hats, but we were sure, even if 
it were true, that Theodosius, for the sake of 
Britain, would send us help. Therefore, we 
must stand fast. . . . My friends, it is 

above all things strange to see how men bear 
ill news! Often the strongest till then be¬ 
come the weakest, while the weakest, as it 


THE WINGED HATS 


191 

were, reach up and steal strength from the 
Gods. So it was with us. Yet my Pertinax 
by his jests and his courtesy and his labours 
had put heart and training into our poor 
numbers during the past years—more than 
I should have thought possible. Even our 
Libyan Cohort—the Thirds—stood up in their 
padded cuirasses and did not whimper. 

‘ In three days came seven chiefs and elders 
of the Winged Hats. Among them was that 
tall young man, Amal, whom I had met on 
the beach, and he smiled when he saw my 
necklace. We made them welcome, for they 
were ambassadors. We showed them Alio, 
alive but bound. They thought we had killed 
him, and I saw it would not have vexed them 
if we had. Alio saw it too, and it vexed him. 
Then in our quarters at Hunno we came to 
Council. 

' They said that Rome was falling, and that 
we must join them. They offered me all 
South Britain to govern after they had taken 
a tribute out of it. 

‘I answered, “Patience. This Wall is not 
weighed off like plunder. Give me proof that 
my General is dead.’' 

‘“Nay,” said one elder, “prove to us that 
he lives ”; and another said, cunningly, 
“What will you give us if we read you his 
last words?” 

‘ “ We are not merchants to bargain,” cried 
Amal. “ Moreover, I owe this man my life. 
He shall have his proof.” He threw across 
to me a letter (well I knew the seal) from 
Maximus. 


192 


PUCK OF POOK S HILL 


"'We took this out of the ship we sunk,” 
he cried. “ I cannot read, but I know one 
sign, at least, which makes me believe.” He 
showed me a dark stain on the outer roll that 
my heavy heart perceived was the valiant 
blood of Maximus. 

‘“Read!” said Amal. “Read, and then 
let us hear whose servants you are ! ” 

‘Said Pertinax, very softly, after he had 
looked through it: “I will read it all. Listen, 
barbarians!” He read from that which I 
have carried next my heart ever since.’ 

Pamesius drew from his neck a folded and 
spotted piece of parchment, and began in a 
hushed voice:— 

'''To Farnesius and Pertinax, the net un¬ 
worthy Captains of the Wall, from Maximus, 
once Emperor of Gatd and Britain, now prisoner 
waiting death by the sea in the camp of Theo¬ 
dosius—Greeting and Good-bye!” 

‘“Enough,” said young Amal; “there is 
your proof I You must join us now ! ” 

‘ Pertinax looked long and silently at him, 
till that fair man blushed like a girl. Then 
read Pertinax:— 

'” I have joyfully done much evil in my life 
to those who have wished me evil, but if ever I 
did any evil to you two I repent, and I ask your 
forgiveness. The three mules which I strove 
to drive have torn me in pieces as your Father 
prophesied. The naked swords wait at the 
tent door to give me the death I gave to Gratian. 
Therefore I, your General and your Emperor, 
send you free and honourable dismissal from 
my service, which you entered, not for money 



THE WINGED HATS 


193 

or office, hut. as it makes me warm to believe, 
because you loved me!'' 

‘"By the Light of the Sun/' Amal broke 
in. “ This was in some sort a Man ! We may 
have been mistaken in his servants ! ” 

'And Pertinax read on: " You gave me the 
time for which I asked. If I have failed to use it, 
do not lament. We have gambled very splen¬ 
didly against the Gods, hiit they hold weighted 
dice, and I must pay the forfeit. Remember, 
I have been; hut Rome is; and Rome will he ! 
Tell Pertinax his Mother is in safety at Niccea, 
and her monies are in charge of the Prefect at 
Antipolis. Make my remembrances to your 
Father and to your Mother, whose friendship 
was great gain to me. Give also to my little 
Piets and to the Winged Hats such messages as 
their thick heads can understand. 1 would 
have sent you three Legions this very day if all 
had gone aright. Do not forget me. We have 
worked together. Farewell! Farewell! Fare¬ 
well! ” 

‘ Now, that was my Emperor’s last letter. 
(The children heard the parchment crackle as 
Pamesius returned it to its place.) 

“‘I was mistaken,” said Amal. "The 
servants of such a man will sell nothing except 
over the sword. I am glad of it.” He held 
out his hand to me. 

‘" But Maximus has given you your dis¬ 
missal,” said an elder. "You are certainly 
free to serve—or to rule—whom you please. 
Join—do not follow—join us ! ” 

‘"We thank you,” said Pertinax. "But 
Maximus tells us to give you such messages as 


194 


PUCK OF POOK’S HILL 


—pardon me, but I use his words—your thick 
heads can understand.” He pointed through 
the door to the foot of a catapult wound up. 

‘“We understand,” said an elder. “The 
Wall must be won at a price?” 

‘“It grieves me,” said Pertinax, laughing, 
“ but so it must be won,” and he gave them 
of our best Southern wine. 

‘ They drank, and wiped their yellow beards 
in silence till they rose to go. 

‘ Said Amal, stretching himself (for they 
were barbarians), “ We be a goodly company; 
I wonder what the ravens and the dogfish will 
make of some of us before this snow melts.” 

‘ “ Think rather what Theodosius may send,” 
I answered; and though they laughed, I saw 
that my chance shot troubled them. 

‘ Only old Alio lingered behind a little. 

‘“You see,” he said, winking and blinking, 
“ I am no more than their dog. When I have 
shown their men the secret short ways across 
our bogs, they will kick me like one.” 

‘ “ Then I should not be in haste to show 
them those ways,” said Pertinax, “till I were 
sure that Rome could not save the Wall.” 

‘“You think so ? Woe is me!” said the 
old man. “ I only wanted peace for my 
people,” and he went out stumbling through 
the snow behind the tall Winged Hats. 

‘In this fashion then, slowly, a day at a 
time, which is very bad for doubting troops, 
the War came upon us. At first the Winged 
Hats swept in from the sea as they had done 
before, and there we met them as before—* 
with the catapults: and they sickened of it. 


THE WINGED HATS 


195 


Yet for a long time they would not trust their 
duck-legs on land, and I think when it came 
to revealing the secrets of the tribe, the little 
Piets were afraid or ashamed to show them all 
the roads across the heather. I had this from 
a Piet prisoner. They were as much our spies 
as our enemies, for the Winged Hats oppressed 
them, and took their winter stores. Ah, 
foolish Little People! 

‘ Then the Winged Hats began to roll us up 
from each end of the Wall. I sent runners 
Southward to see what the news might be in 
Britain; but the wolves were very bold that 
winter among the deserted stations where the 
troops had once been, and none came back. 
We had trouble too with the forage for the 
ponies along the Wall. I kept ten, and so 
did Pertinax. We lived and slept in the saddle 
riding east or west, and we ate our worn-out 
ponies. The people of the town also made us 
some trouble till I gathered them all in one 
quarter behind Hunno. We broke down the 
WaU on either side of it to make as it were a 
citadel. Our men fought better in close 
order. 

‘ By the end of the second month we were 
deep in the War as a man is deep in a snow¬ 
drift or in a dream. I think we fought in our 
sleep. At least I know I have gone on the 
Wall and come off again, remembering nothing 
between, though my throat was harsh with 
giving orders, and my sword, I could see, 
had been used. 

‘The Winged Hats fought like wolves—all 
in a pack. Where they had suffered most. 


196 PUCK OF POOR’S HILL 

there they charged in most hotly. This was 
hard for the defender, but it held them from 
sweeping on into Britain. 

‘ In those days Pertinax and I wrote on the 
plaster of the bricked archway into Valentia 
the names of the towers, and the days on 
which they fell one by one. We wished for 
some record. 

‘And the fighting? The fight was always 
hottest to left and right of the great Statue of 
Roma Dea, near to Rutilianus’ house. By 
the light of the Sun, that old fat man, whom 
we had not considered at all, grew young 
again among the trumpets! I remember he 
said his sword was an oracle! “Let us con¬ 
sult the Oracle,” he would say, and put the 
handle against his ear, and shake his head 
wisely. “ And day is allowed Rutilianus 
to live,” he would say, and, tucking up his 
cloak, he would puff and pant and fight well. 
Oh, there were jests in plenty on the Wall to 
take the place of food! 

‘We endured for two months and seven¬ 
teen days—always being pressed from three 
sides into a smaller space. Several times Alio 
sent in word that help was at hand. We did 
not believe it, but it cheered our men. 

‘The end came not with shoutings of joy, 
but, like the rest, as in a dream. The Winged 
Hats suddenly left us in peace for one night, 
and the next day; which is too long for spent 
men. We slept at first lightly, expecting to 
be roused, and then like logs, each where he 
lay. May you never need such sleep! When 
I waked our towers v/ere full of strange, 


THE WINGED HATS 


197 


armed men, who watched us snoring. I 
roused Pertinax, and we leaped up together. 

‘“What?” said a young man in clean 
armour. “Do you fight against Theodosius? 
Look! ” 

‘ North we looked over the red snow. No 
Winged Hats were there. South we looked 
over the white snow, and behold there were 
the Eagles of two strong Legions encamped. 
East and west we saw flame and fighting, but 
by Hunno all was still. 

‘“Trouble no more,” said the young man. 
“Rome’s arm is long. Where are the Cap¬ 
tains of the Wall?” 

‘ We said we were those men. 

‘“But you are old and grey-haired.” he 
cried. “ Maximus said that they were boys.” 

‘“Yes that was true some years ago,” 
said Pertinax. “ What is our fate to be, you 
fine and well-fed child?” 

‘ “ I am called Ambrosius, a secretary of the 
Emperor,” he answered. “Show me a cer¬ 
tain letter which Maximus wrote from a tent 
at Aquileia, and perhaps I will believe.” 

‘ I took it from my breast, and when he had 
read it he saluted us, saying: “Your fate is 
in your own hands. If you choose to serve 
Theodosius, he will give you a Legion. If 
it suits you to go to your homes, we will give 
you a Triumph.” 

‘ “ I would like better a bath, wine, food, 
razors, soaps, oils, and scents,” said Pertinax, 
laughing. 

‘ “ Oh, I see you are a boy,” said Ambrosius. 
“ And you? ” turning to me. 


198 PUCK OF POOK’S HILL 

‘ “ We bear no ill-will against Theodosius, 
but in War-” I began. 

'In War it is as it is in Love,” said Per- 
tinax. “Whether she be good or bad, one 
gives one’s best once, to one only. That 
given, there remains no second worth giving or 
taking.” 

‘“That is true,” said Ambrosius. “I was 
with Maximus before he died. He warned 
Theodosius that you would never serve him, 
and frankly I say I am sorry for my Emperor. ’ ’ 

“‘He has Rome to console him,” said 
Pertinax. “I ask you of your kindness to 
let us go to our homes and get this smell out 
of our nostrils.” 

‘None the less they gave us a Triumph!' 

‘It was well earned,’ said Puck, throwing 
some leaves into the still water of the marlpit. 
The black, oily circles spread dizzily as the 
children watched them. 

‘ I want to know, oh, ever so many things,’ 
said Dan. ‘What happened to old Alio? 
Did the Winged Hats ever come back? And 
what did Amal do?’ 

‘ And what happened to the fat old Gen¬ 
eral with the five cooks?’ said Una. ‘And, 
what did your Mother say when you came 
home? ’ . . . 

‘ She’d say you’re settin’ too long over this 
old pit, so late as ’tis already,’ said old 
Hobden’s voice behind them. ‘Hstl’ he 
whispered. 

He stood still, for not twenty paces away 
a magnificent dog-fox sat on his haunches and 



THE WINGED HATS 


199 

looked at the children as though he were an 
old friend of theirs. 

‘ Oh, Mus’ Reynolds, Mus’ Reynolds! ’ said 
Hobden, under his breath. ‘ If I knowed all 
was inside your head, Fd know something 
wuth knowin’. Mus’ Dan an’ Miss Una, 
come along o’ me while I lock up my liddle 
hen-house. 



A PICT SONG 


Rome never looks where she treads^ 
Always her heavy hooves falh 
On our stomachs, our hearts or our heads; 

And Rome never heeds when we bawL 
Her sentries pass on—that is all, 

And we gather behind them in hordes, 
And plot to reconquer the Wall, 

With only our tongues for our swords. 


We are the Little Folk—we ! 

T00 little to love or to hate. 

Leave us alone and you'll see 

How we can drag down the Great/ 
We are the worm in the wood! 

We are the rot at the root I 
We are the germ in the blood! 

We are the thorn in the foot! 


Mistletoe killing an oak — 

Rats gnawing cables in two — 
Moths making holes in a cloak — 
How they must love what they do! 
Yes,—and we Little Folk too, 

We are as busy as they — 

Working our works out of view — 
Watch, and you'll see it some day! 
201 


202 


PUCK OF POOR’S HILL 


No indeed! We are not strong, 

But we know Peoples that are. 

Yes, and we'll guide them along. 

To smash and destroy you in War! 

We shall he slaves just the same f 
Yes, we have always been slaves; 

But you—you will die of the shame. 

And then we shall dance on your graves/ 


We are the Little Folky we ! etc. 


HAL O* THE DRAFT 










Prophets have honour all over the Earthy 
Except in the village where they were born; 

Where such as knew them hoys from birth, 
Nature-ally hold 'em in scorn. 

When Prophets are naughty and young and vain, 
They make a won'erful grievance of it; 

(You can see by their writings how they complain. 
But O, 'tis won'erful good for the Prophet! 

There's nothing Nineveh Town can give, 

{Nor being swallowed by whales between), 

Makes up for the place where a man's folk live. 
That don't care nothing what he has been. 

He might ha' been that, or he might ha' been this. 

But they love and they hate him for what he is! 


20 $ 


HAL O’ THE DRAFT 


A RAINY afternoon drove Dan and Una 
over to play pirates in the Little Mill. 
If you don’t mind rats on the rafters and oats 
in your shoes, the mill-attic, with its trap-doors 
and inscriptions on beams about floods and 
sweethearts, is a splendid place. It is lighted 
by a foot-square window, called Duck Win¬ 
dow, that looks across to Little Lindens 
Farm, and the spot where Jack Cade was 
killed. 

When they had climbed the attic ladder 
(they called it the ‘mainmast tree’ out of 
the ballad of Sir Andrew Barton, and Dan 
‘swarved it with might and main,’ as the 
ballad says) they saw a man sitting on Duck 
window-sill. He was dressed in a plum- 
coloured doublet and tight plum-coloured 
hose, and he drew busily in a red-edged book. 

‘Sit ye! Sit ye I’ Puck cried from a rafter 
overhead. ‘See what it is to be beautiful! 
Sir Harry Dawe—pardon, Hal—^says I am 
the very image of a head for a gargoyle.' 

The man laughed and raised his dark velvet 
cap to the children, and his grizzled hair 
bristled out in a stormy fringe. He was old— 
forty at least—but his eyes were young, with 
funny little wrinkles all round them. A 
satchel of embroidered leather hung from his 
broad belt, which looked interesting. 

207 


PUCK OF POOR’S HILL 


^o8 

* May we see? ’ said Una, coming forward. 

‘Surely—sure-ly!’ he said, moving up on 
the window-seat, and returned to his work 
with a silver-pointed pencil. Puck sat as 
though the grin were fixed for ever on his 
broad face, while they watched the quick, 
certain fingers that copied it. Presently the 
man took a reed pen from his satchel, and 
trimmed it with a little ivory knife, carved 
in the semblance of a fish. 

‘ Oh, what a beauty ! ’ cried Dan. 

‘ ’Ware fingers! That, blade is perilous 
sharp. I made it myself of the best Low 
Country cross-bow steel. And so, too, this 
fish. When his back-fin travels to his tail— 
so—he swallows up the blade, even as the 
whale swallowed G^er Jonah. . . . Yes, 

and that’s my ink-hom. I made the four 
silver saints round it. Press Barnabas’s 

head. It opens, and then-’ He dipped 

the trimmed pen, and with careful boldness 
began to put in the essential lines of Puck’s 
rugged face, that had been but faintly re¬ 
vealed by the silver-point. 

The children gasped, for it fairly leaped from 
the page. 

As he worked, and the rain fell on the tiles, 
he talked—now clearly, now muttering, now 
breaking off to frown or smile at his work. 
He told them he was bom at Little Lindens 
Farms, and his father used to beat him for 
drawing things instead of doing things, till 
an old priest called Father Roger, who drew 
illuminated letters in rich people’s books, 
coaxed the parents to let him take the boy 


HAL 0 ’ THE DRAFT 


209 


as a sort of painter’s apprentice. Then he 
went with Father Roger to Oxford, where he 
cleaned plates and carried cloaks and shoes 
for the scholars of a College called Merton. 

‘Didn’t you hate that.?’ said Dan after a 
great many other questions. 

‘I never thought on’t. Half Oxford was 
building new colleges or beautifying the old, 
and she had called to her aid the master- 
craftsmen of all Christendie—kings in their 
trade and honoured of Kings. I knew them. 
I worked for them: that was enough. No 
wonder-’ He stopped and laughed. 

‘ You became a great man,’ said Puck. 

‘They said so, Robin. Even Bramante 
said so.’ 

‘ Why ? What did you do ? ’ Dan asked. 

The artist looked at him queerly. ‘ Things 
in stone and such, up and down England. 
You would not have heard of ’em. To come 
nearer home, I re-builded this little St. 
Bartholomew’s church of ours. It cost me 
more trouble and sorrow than aught I’ve 
touched in my life. But ’twas a sound lesson.' 

‘Um,’ said Dan. ‘We had lessons this 
morning.’ 

‘I’ll not afflict ye, lad,’ said Hal, while 
Puck roared. ‘Only ’tis strange to think 
how that little church was re-built, re-roofed, 
and made glorious, thanks to some few godly 
Sussex iron-masters, a Bristol sailor lad, a 
proud ass called Hal o' the Draft because, 
d’you see, he was always drawing and drafting; 
and'—he dragged the words slowly —"and a 
Scotch pirate.’ 



210 


PUCK OF POOR’S HILL 


'Pirate?’ said Dan. He wriggled like a 
hooked fish. 

‘ Even that Andrew Barton you were singing 
of on the stair just now.’ He dipped again in 
the ink-well, and held his breath over a sweep¬ 
ing line, as though he had forgotten every¬ 
thing else. 

‘Pirates don’t build churches, do they?' 
said Dan. ‘ Or do they ? ’ 

‘They help mightily,’ Hal laughed. ‘But 
you were at your lessons this mom. Jack 
Scholar?’ 

‘Oh, pirates aren’t lessons. It was only 
Bruce and his silly old spider,’ said Una. 

‘ Why did Sir Andrew Barton help you? ’ 

‘I question if he ever knew it,’ said Hal, 
twinkling. ‘ Robin, how a-mischief’s name 
am I to tell these innocents what comes of 
sinful pride?’ 

‘Oh, we know all about that" said Una 
pertly. ‘ If you get too beany—that’s cheeky 
—you get sat upon, of course.’ 

Hal considered a moment, pen in air, and 
Puck said some long words. 

‘Aha! That was my case too,’ he cried. 
‘Beany—you say—but certainly I did not 
conduct myself well. I was proud of—of 
such things as porches—a Galilee porch at 
Lincoln for choice—proud of one Torrigiano's 
arm on my shoulder, proud of my knighthood 
when I made the gilt scroll-work for The 
Sovereign —our King’s ship. But Father 
Roger sitting in Merton Library, he did not 
forget me. At the top of my pride, when I 
and no other should have builded the porch 


HAL O' THE DRAFT 


211 


at Lincoln, he laid it on me with a terrible 
forefinger to go back to my Sussex clays and 
re-build, at my own charges, my own church, 
where we Dawes have been buried for six 
generations. “ Out! Son of my Art!" said he* 
“ Fight the Devil at home ere you call yourself 
a man and a craftsman.” And I quaked, and 
I went. ... How’s yon, Robin?’ He 
flourished the finished sketch before Puck. 

‘Me! Me past peradventure,’ said Puck, 
smirking like a man at a mirror. ‘ Ah, see I 
The rain has took off ! I hate housen in day¬ 
light.’ 

‘Whoop! Holiday!’ cried Hal, leaping up. 
‘Who’s for my Little Lindens? We can talk 
there.’ 

They tumbled downstairs, and turned past 
the dripping willows by the sunny mill dam. 

‘Body o’ me,’ said Hal, staring at the hop¬ 
garden, where the hops were just ready to 
blossom. ‘What are these vines? No, not 
vines, and they twine the wrong way to beans.* 
He began to draw in his ready book. 

‘Hops. New since your day,’ said Puck. 
‘They’re an herb of Mars, and their flowers 
dried flavour ale. We say:— 

* “ Turkeys, Heresy, Hops, and Beer 
Came into England all in one year.*'' 

‘Heresy I know. I’ve seen Hops—God 
be praised for their beauty! What is your 
Turkis ? ’ 

The children laughed. They knew the 
Lindens turkeys, and as soon as they reached 


212 PUCK OF POOK’S HILL 

Lindens’ orchard on the hill the flock charged 
at them. 

Out came Hal’s book at once. ‘Hoity- 
toity!’ he cried. ‘Here’s Pride in purple 
feathers! Here’s wrathy contempt and the 
Pomps of the Flesh! How d’you call themV 

‘ Turkeys! Turkeys! ’ the children shouted, 
as the old gobbler raved and flamed against 
Hal’s plum-coloured hose. 

‘Save Your Magnificence!’ he said. ‘I’ve 
drafted two good new things to-day.’ And 
he doffed his cap to the bubbling bird. 

Then they walked through the grass to the 
knoll where Little Lindens stands. The old 
farm-house, weather-tiled to the ground, 
took almost the colour of a blood-ruby 
in the afternoon light. The pigeons pecked 
at the mortar in the chimney-stacks; the 
bees that had lived under the tiles since it 
was built filled the hot August air with their 
booming; and the smell of the box-tree by 
the dairy-window mixed with the smell of 
earth after rain, bread after baking, and a 
tickle of wood-smoke. 

The farmer’s wife came to the door, baby 
on arm, shaded her brows against the sun, 
stooped to pluck a sprig of rosemary, and 
turned down the orchard. The old spaniel 
in his barrel barked once or twice to show he 
was in charge of the empty house. Puck 
clicked back the garden-gate. 

‘D’you marvel that I love it?’ said Hal, 
in a whisper. ‘ What can town folk know of 
the nature of housen—or land ? ’ 

They perched themselves arow on the old 


HAL O’ THE DRAFT 


213 


hacked oak bench in Lindens’ garden, looking 
across the valley of the brook at the fern- 
covered dimples and hollows of the Forge 
behind Hobden’s cottage. The old man was 
cutting a faggot in his garden by the hives. 
It was quite a second after his chopper fell 
that the chump of the blow reached their 
lazy ears. 

‘ Eh—yeh! ’ said Hal. ‘ I mind when where 
that old gaffer stands was Nether Forge— 
Master John Collins’s foundry. Many a night 
has his big trip-hammer shook me in my bed 
here. Boom-bitty ! Boom-bitty ! If the wind 
was east, I could hear Master Tom Collins’s 
forge at Stockens answering his brother, 
Boom-oop! Boom-oop! and midway be¬ 
tween, Sir John Pelham’s sledge-hammers at 
Brightling would strike in like a pack o’scholars, 
and '' Hic-haec-hoc'* they’d say, ** Hic-haec- 
hoc” till I fell asleep. Yes. The valley was 
as full o’ forges and fineries as a May shaw o* 
cuckoos. All gone to grass now!’ 

‘What did they make?’ said Dan. 

‘ Guns for the King’s ships—and for others. 
Serpentines and cannon mostly. When the 
guns were cast, down would come the King’s 
Officers, and take our plough-oxen to haul 
them to the coast. Look! Here’s one of 
the first and finest craftsmen of the Sea! ’ 

He fluttered back a page of his book, and 
showed them a young man’s head. Under¬ 
neath was written: ‘Sebastianus.’ 

‘He came down with a King’s Order on 
Master John Collins for twenty serpentines 
(wicked little cannon they be!) to furnish a 


214 


PUCK OF POOK’S HILL 


venture of ships. I drafted him thus sitting 
by our fire telling Mother of the new lands 
he’d find the far side the world. And he 
found them, too! There’s a nose to cleave 
through unknown seas! Cabot was his name 
—a Bristol lad—half a foreigner. I set a 
heap by him. He helped me to my church¬ 
building.’ 

‘I thought that was Sir Andrew Barton,' 
said Dan. 

‘Ay, but foundations before roofs,' Hal 
answered. ‘Sebastian first put me in the 
way of it. I had come down here, not to 
serve God as a craftsman should, but to show 
my people how great a craftsman I was. 
They cared not, and it served me right, one 
split straw for my craft or my greatness. 
What a murrain call had I, they said, to 
mell with old St. Barnabas’s? Ruinous the 
church had been since the Black Death, and 
ruinous she should remain; and I could hang 
myself in my new scaffold-ropes 1 Gentle and 
simple, high and low—the Hayes, the Fowles. 
the Fanners, the Collinses—they were all in a 
tale against me. Only Sir John Pelham up 
yonder to Brightling bade me heart-up and go 
on. Yet how could I ? Did I ask Master Col¬ 
lins for his timber-tug to haul beams ? The 
oxen had gone to Lewes after lime Did he 
promise me a set of iron cramps or ties for the 
roof? They never came to hand, or else they 
were spaulty or cracked. So with everything. 
Nothing said, but naught done except I stood 
by them, and then done amiss. I thought the 
countryside was fair bewitched.’ 


HAL O’ THE DRAFT 


215 


* It was, sure-ly,’ said Puck, knees under 
chin. ‘Did you never suspect anyone?’ 

‘ Not till Sebastian came for his guns, and 
John Collins played him the same dog’s tricks 
as he’d played me with my ironwork. Week 
in, week out, two of three serpentines would 
be flawed in the casting, and only fit, they 
said, to be remelted. Then John Collins 
would shake his head, and vow he could pass 
no cannon for the King’s service that were not 
perfect. Saints! How Sebastian stormed 1 
I know, for we sat on this bench sharing our 
sorrows inter-common. 

‘ When Sebastian had fumed away six weeks 
at Lindens and gotten just six serpentines, 
Dirk Brenzett, Master of the Cygnet hoy, sends 
me word that the block of stone he was fetching 
me from France for our new font he’d hove 
overboard to lighten his ship, chased by 
Andrew Barton up to Rye Port.’ 

‘ Ah 1 The pirate I ’ said Dan. 

* Yes. And while I am tearing my hair over 
I this, Ticehurst Will, my best mason, comes 
i to me shaking, and vowing that the Devil, 

I homed, tailed, and chained, has mn out on 
him from the church-tower, and the men would 
i work there no more. So I took ’em off the 
I foundations, which we were strengthening, 
i and went into the Bell Tavern for a cup of ale. 
j Says Master John Collins: “ Have it your own 
way, lad; but if I was you, I’d take the sinnifi- 
cation o’ the sign, and leave old Barnabas’s 
Church alone ! ” And they all wagged their 
sinful heads, and agreed. Less afraid of the 
Devil than of me—as I saw later. 



2i6 


PUCK OF POOR’S HILL 


'When I brought my sweet news to 
Lindens, Sebastian was limewashing the 
kitchen-beams for Mother. He loved her like 
a son. 

‘“Cheer up, lad,” he says. “God’s where 
He was. Only you and I chance to be pure 
pute asses! We’ve been tricked, Hal, and 
more shame to me, a sailor, that I did not 
guess it before! You must leave your belfry 
alone, forsooth, because the Devil is adrift 
there; and I cannot get my serpentines be¬ 
cause John Collins cannot cast them aright. 
Meantime Andrew Barton hawks off the Port 
of Rye. And why? To take those very 
serpentines which poor Cabot must whistle 
for; the said serpentines. I’ll wager my share 
of new Continents, being now hid away in St. 
Barnabas church tower. Clear as the Irish 
coast at noonday!” 

‘ “They’d sure never dare to do it,” I said; 
“ and for another thing, selling cannon to the 
King’s enemies is black treason—hanging and 
fine.” 

‘ “ It is sure large profit. Men’ll dare any 
gallows for that. I have been a trader my¬ 
self,” says he. “We must be upsides with 
’em for the honour of Bristol.” 

‘Then he hatched a plot, sitting on the 
lime-wash bucket. We gave out to ride o’ 
Tuesday to London and made a show of mak¬ 
ing farewells of our friends—especially of 
Master John Collins. But at Wadhurst Woods 
we turned; rode by night to the watermeadows; 
hid our horses in a willow-tot at the foot of 
the glebe, and stole a-tiptoe up hill to Bar 


HAL O’ THE DRAFT 


217 

tiabas’s church again. A thick mist, and a 
moon coming through. 

‘ I had no sooner locked the tower-door 
behind us than over goes Sebastian full length 
in the dark. 

‘“Pest!” he says. “Step high and feel 
low, Hal. I’ve stumbled over guns be¬ 
fore.” 

‘ I groped, and one by one—the tower was 
pitchy dark—I counted the lither barrels of 
twenty serpentines laid out on pease-straw. 
No conceal at all! 

‘ “ There’s two demi-cannon my end, ” says 
Sebastian, slapping metal. “They’ll be for 
Andrew Barton’s lower deck. Honest— hon¬ 
est John Collins! So this is his warehouse,, 
his arsenal, his armoury! Now, see you wh}^ 
your pokings and pryings have raised the^ 
Devil in Sussex? You’ve hindered John’s, 
lawful trade for months,” and he laughed! 
where he lay. 

‘A clay-cold tower is no fireside at mid¬ 
night, so we climbed the belfry stairs, and 
there Sebastian trips over a cow-hide with 
its horns and tail. 

‘“Aha! Your Devil has left his doublet! 
Does it become me, Hal?” He draws it on 
and capers in the slits of window-moonlight 
—won’erful devilish-like. Then he sits on the 
stair, rapping with his tail on a board, and 
his back-aspect was dreader than his front; 
and a howlet lit in, and screeched at the horns 
of him. 

‘“If you’d keep out the Devil, shut the 
door,” he whispered. “And that’s another 


2i8 


PUCK OF POOR’S HILL 


false proverb, Hal, for I can hear your tower- 
door opening.” 

'“I locked it. Who a-plague has another 
key, then?” I said. 

‘ “ All the congregation, to judge by their 
feet,” he says, and peers into the blackness. 

Still! Still, Hal! Hear ’em grunt! That’s 
more o’ my sepentines. I’ll be bound. 
One—two—three—four they bear in I Faith, 
Andrew equips himself like an admiral ! 
Twenty-four serpentines in all! ” 

‘As if it had been an echo, we heard John 
^Collins’s voice come up all hollow: “Twenty- 
•four serpentines and two demi-cannon. That’s 
the full tally for Sir Andrew Barton.” 

‘ “ Courtesy costs naught, ” whispers Se¬ 
bastian. “Shall I drop my dagger on his 
head?” 

‘ “ They go over to Rye o’ Thursday in the 
woolwains, hid under the wool packs. Dirk 
Brenzett meets them at Udimore, as before,” 
says John. 

‘ “ Lord! What a worn, handsmooth trade 
it is!” says Sebastian. “I lay we are the 
sole two babes in the village that have not 
our lawful share in the venture.” 

‘There was a full score folk below, talking 
like all Robertsbridge Market. We counted 
them by voice. 

‘Master John Collins pipes: “The guns 
for the French carrack must lie here next 
month. Will, when does your young fool 
(me, so please you I) come back from 
Lunnon?” 

“‘No odds,” I heard Ticehurst Will answer- 


HAL O’ THE DRAFT 


219 


**Lay ’em just where you’ve a mind, Mus’ 
Collins. We’re all too afraid o’ the Devil to 
mell with the tower now.” And the long 
knave laughed. 

‘“Ah! ’tis easy enow for you to raise the 
Devil, Will, ” says another—Ralph Hobden. 
from the Forge. 

‘“Aaa-men!” roars Sebastian, and ere I 
could hold him, he leaps down the stairs— 
won’erful devilish-like—howling no bounds. 
He had scarce time to lay out for the nearest 
than they ran. Saints, how they ran! We 
heard them pound on the door of the Bell 
Tavern, and then we ran too. 

‘“What’s next?” says Sebastian, looping 
up his cow-tail as he leaped the briars. “ I’ve 
broke honest John’s face.” 

‘ “ Ride to Sir John Pelham’s,” I said. 
“ He is the only one that ever stood by me.” 

‘ We rode to Brightling, and past Sir John’s 
lodges, where the keepers would have shot at 
us for deer-stealers, and we had Sir John 
down into his Justice’s chair, and when we 
had told him our tale and showed him the 
cow-hide which Sebastian wore still girt about 
him, he laughed till the tears ran. 

‘ “ Wel-a-well!” he says. “I’ll see justice 
done before daylight. What’s your com¬ 
plaint? Master Collins is my old friend.” 

‘“He’s none of mine,” I cried. “When I 
think how he and his likes have baulked and 
dozened and cozened me at every turn over 
the church ”-and I choked at the thought. 

‘ “ Ah, but ye see now they needed it for 
another use,” says he, smoothly. 



520 


PUCK OF POOK’S HILL 


“‘So they did my serpentines/* Sobas'biam 
cries. “I should be half across the Western 
Ocean by this if my guns had been ready. 
But they’re sold to a Scotch pirate by your 
old friend.” 

‘“Where’s your proof?” says Sir John, 
stroking his beard. 

‘ “ I broke my shins over them not an hour 
since, and I heard John give order where they 
were to be taken,” says Sebastian. 

‘“Words! Words only,” says Sir John. 
“ Master Collins is somewhat of a liar at best.” 

‘ He carried it so gravely, that for the mo¬ 
ment, I thought he was dipped in this secret 
traffick too, and that there was not an honest 
ironmaster in Sussex. 

‘“Name o’ Reason!” says Sebastian, and 
raps with his cow-tail on the table, “Whose 
guns are they, then? ” 

‘ “ Yours, manifestly,” says Sir John. “ You 
come with the King’s Order for ’em, and 
Master Collins casts them in his foundry. If 
he chooses to bring them up from Nether 
Forge and lay ’em out in the church tower, 
why they are e’en so much the nearer to the 
main road and you are saved a day’s hauling. 
What a coil to make of a mere act of neigh¬ 
bourly kindness, lad! ” 

‘ “ I fear I have requited him very scurvily,” 
says Sebastian, looking at his knuckles. “But 
what of the demi-cannon? I could do with 
’em well, but they are not in the King’s Order. ” 

‘ “ Kindness — loving - kindness, ’ ’ says Sir 
John. “ Questionless, in his zeal for the King 
and his love for you, John adds those two 


HAL O’ THE DRAFT 


221 


cannon as a gift. ’Tis plain as this coming 
daylight, ye stockfish!” 

‘“So it is,” says Sebastian. “Oh, Sir 
John, Sir John, why did you never use the 
sea? You are lost ashore.” And he looked 
on him with great love. 

‘ “ I do my best in my station.” Sir John 
strokes his beard again and rolls forth his 
deep drumming Justice’s voice thus:—“But 
—suffer me!—you two lads, on some midnight 
frolic into which I probe not, roystering 
around the taverns, surprise Master Collins 
at his”—he thinks a moment—“at his good 
deeds done by stealth. Ye surprise him, I 
say, cruelly.” 

‘ “ Truth, Sir John. If you had seen him 
run!” says vSebastian. 

‘ “ On this you ride breakneck to me with 
a tale of pirates, and wool-wains, and cow¬ 
hides, which, though it hath moved m}^^ mirth 
as a man, offendeth my reason as a magistrate. 
So I will e’en accompany you back to the 
tower with, perhaps, some few of my own 
people, and three to four wagons, and I’ll be 
your warrant that Master John Collins will 
freely give you your guns and your demi- 
cannon, Master Sebastian.” He breaks into 
his proper voice—“ I warned the old tod and 
his neighbours long ago that they’d come 
to trouble with their side-sellings and b^^e- 
dealings; but we cannot have half Sussex 
hanged for a little gun-running. Are ye 
content, lads?” 

‘“Id commit any treason for two demi- 
cannon,” said Sebastian, and rubs his hands. 


222 


PUCK OF POOR’S HILL 


‘ “ Ye have just compounded with rank 
treason-felony for the same bribe,” says Sir 
John. “Wherefore to horse, and get the 
guns.” ’ 

‘But Master Collins meant the guns for 
Sir Andrew Barton all along, didn’t he?’ said 
Dan. 

‘ Questionless, that he did,’ said Hal. ‘ But 
he lost them. We poured into the village on 
the red edge of dawn. Sir John horsed, in half¬ 
armour, his pennon flying; behind him thirty 
stout Brightling knaves, five abreast; behind 
them four wool-wains, and behind them four 
trumpets to triumph over the jest, blowing: 
Our King went forth to Normandie. When we 
halted and rolled the ringing guns out of the 
tower, ’twas for all the world like Friar Roger’s 
picture of the French siege in the Queen’s 
Missal-book. * 

‘And what did we—I mean, what did our 
village do?’ said Dan. 

‘Oh! Bore it nobly—nobly,’ cried Hal. 
‘Though they had tricked me, I was proud 
of us. They came out of their housen, looked 
at that little army as though it had been a 
post, and went their shut-mouthed w^ay. 
Never a sign I Never a word! They’d ha’ 
perished sooner than let Brightling over¬ 
crow us. Even that villain, Ticehurst Will, 
coming out of the Bell for his morning ale, 
he all but ran under Sir John’s horse. 

‘‘‘Ware, Sirrah Devil!” cries Sir John, 
reining back. 

‘“Oh!” says Will. “Market day, is it? 
And all the bullocks from Brightling here ? ” 


HAL O’ THE DRAFT 


223 


*I spared him his belting for that—the 
brazen knave! 

'But John Collins was our masterpiece! 
He happened along-street (his jaw tied up 
where Sebastian had clouted him) when we 
were trundling the first demi-cannon through 
the lych-gate. 

‘ " I reckon you’ll find her middlin’ heavy,” 
he says. “ If you’ve a mind to pay, I’ll loan 
ye my timber-tug. She won’t lie easy on ary 
wool-wain.” 

' That was the one time I ever saw Sebastian 
taken flat aback. He opened and shut his 
mouth, fishy-like. 

' “ No offence,” says Master John. You’ve 
got her reasonable good cheap. I thought ye 
might not grudge me a groat if I help move 
her.” Ah, he was a masterpiece! They say 
that morning’s work cost our John two 
hundred pounds, and he never winked an 
eyelid, not even when he saw the guns all 
carted off to Lewes.’ 

‘ Neither then nor later? ’ said Puck. 

‘ Once. ’Twas after he gave St. Barnabas 
the new chime of bells. (Oh, there was 
nothing the Collinses, or the Hayes, or the 
Fowles, or the Fanners would not do for the 
church then! “Ask and have” was their 
song.) We had rung ’em in, and he was in 
the tower with Black Nick Fowle, that gave 
us our rood-screen. The old man pinches 
the bell-rope one hand and scratches his neck 
with t’other. “Sooner she was pulling yon 
clapper than my neck, ’ ’ he says. That was all! 
That was Sussex—seely Sussex for everlastin’! ’ 


224 


PUCK OF POOR’S HILL 


'And what happened after?’ said Una. 

'I went back into England/ said Hal^ 
slowly. ‘I’d had my lesson against pride. 
But they tell me I left St. Barnabas’s a 
jewel—justabout a jewel! Wel-a-well! ’Twas 
done for and among my own people, and— 
Father Roger was right—I never knew such 
trouble or such triumph since. That’s the 
nature o’ things. A dear—dear land.’ He 
dropped his chin on his chest. 

‘ There’s your Father at the Forge. What’s 
he talking to old Hobden about?’ said Puck, 
opening his hand with three leaves in it. 

Dan looked towards the cottage. 

‘ Oh, I know. It’s that old oak lying 
across the brook. Pater always wants it 
grubbed.’ 

In the still valley they could hear old Hob* 
den’s deep tones. 

‘ Have it as you’ve a mind to,’ he was saying. 

* But the vivers of her roots they hold the bank 
together. If you grub her out, the bank she’ll 
all come tearin’ down, an’ next floods the 
brook’ll swarve up. But have it as you’ve 
a mind. The mistuss she sets a heap by the 
ferns on her trunk.’ 

‘Oh! I’ll think it over,’ said the Pater. 

Una laughed a little bubbling chuckle. 

‘What Devil’s in that belfry?’ said Hal, 
with a lazy laugh. ‘ That should be Hobden 
by his voice. 

‘ Why, the oak is the regular bridge for all 
the rabbits between the Three Acre and our 
meadow. The best place for wires on the 
farm, Hobden says. He’s got two there now/ 


HAL O' THE DRAFT 


22S 

Una answered. 'He won't ever let it be 
grubbed! ’ 

‘Ah, Sussex! Silly Sussex for everlastin',' 
murmured Hal; and the next moment their' 
Father’s voice calling across to Little Lindens 
broke the spell as St. Barnabas’s clock struck 
five. 


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. ^ 


SMUGGLERS’ SONG 


If you wake at midnight^ and hear a horse's feet^ 

Don't go drawing hack the blind, or looking in 
the street. 

Them that asks no questions isn't told a lie. 

Watch the wall, my darling, while the Gentle¬ 
men go hy! 

Five and twenty ponies 
Trotting through the dark; 

Brandy for the Parson, 

'Baccy for the Clerk. 

Laces for a lady, letters for a spy. 

And watch the wall, my darling, while the 
Gentlemen go by ! 

Running round the woodlump if you chance 
to find 

Little barrels, roped and tarred, all full of 
brandywined; 

Don't you shout to come and look, nor take 'em 
for your play; 

Put the brishwood back again,—and they'll be 
gone next day ! 

If you see the stahleyard setting open wide; 

If you see a tied horse lying down inside; 

If your mother mends a coat cut about and tore; 

If the lining's wet and warm — don't you ask 
no more ! 

227 


228 


PUCK OF POOR’S HILL 


If you meet King George's men, dressed in blue 
and red, 

You be careful what you say, and mindful 
what is said. 

If they call you ‘ pretty maid, ’ and chuck you 
'neath the chin. 

Don't you tell where no one is, nor yet where 
no one's been! 

Knocks and footsteps round the house—whistles 
after dark — 

You've no call for running out till the house¬ 
dogs bark. 

Trusty’s here, and Pincher’s here, and see how 
dumb they lie — 

They don't fret to follow when the Gentlemen 
go by! 

If you do as you've been told, likely there's a 
chance, 

You'll be give a dainty doll, all the way from 
France, 

With a cap of Valenciennes, and a velvet hood — 

A present from the Gentlemen, along o' being 
good! 

Five and twenty ponies, 

Trotting through the Park — 

Brandy for the Parson, 

'Baccy for the Clerk. 

Them that asks no questions isn't told a lie. 

Watch the wall, my darling, while the Gentle¬ 
men go by ! 


DYMCHURCH FLIT 



THE BEE BOY’S SONG 


Bees! Bees! Hark to the Bees! 

‘ Hide from your neighbours as much as you 
please, 

But all that has happened to us you must tell! 
Or else we will give you no honey to sell.' 

A maiden in her glory, 

Upon her wedding-day, 

Must tell her Bees the story, 

Or else theydl fly away. 

Fly away—die away — 

Dwindle down and leave you! 

But if you don't deceive your Bees, 
Your Bees will not deceive you !— 

Marriage, birth or huryin'. 

News across the seas, 

All you're sad or merry in. 

You must tell the Bees, 

Tell 'em coming in an' out. 

Where the Fanners fan, 

'Cause the Bees are justabout 
As curious as a man ! 

Don't you wait where trees are. 

When the lightnings play; 

Nor don't you hate where Bees are. 

Or else they'll pine away. 

Pine away—dwine away — 

Anything to leave you! 

But if you never grieve your Bees, 

Your Bees 'll never grieve you, 

231 


V 

1 


‘DYMCHURCH FLIT’ 


J UST at dusk, a soft September rain began 
to fall on the hop-pickers. The mothers 
wheeled the bouncing perambulators out of 
the gardens; bins were put away, and tally- 
books made up. The young couples strolled 
home, two to each umbrella, and the single 
men walked behind them laughing. Dan and 
Una, who had been picking after their lessons,, 
marched off to roast potatoes at the oast- 
house, where old Hobden, with Blue-eyed 
Bess, his lurcher-dog, lived all the month 
through, drying the hops. 

They settled themselves, as usual, on the 
sack-strewn cot in front of the fires, and, 
when Hobden drew up the shutter, stared, 
as usual, at the fiameless bed of coals spouting 
its heat up the dark well of the old-fashioned 
roundel. Slowly he cracked off a few fresh 
pieces of coal, packed them, with fingers that 
never flinched, exactly where they would do 
most good; slowly he reached behind him 
till Dan tilted the potatoes into his iron scoop 
of a hand; carefully he arranged them round 
the fire, and then stood for a moment, black 
against the glare. As he closed the shutter, 
the oast-house seemed dark before the day’s 
end, and he lit the candle in the lanthom. 
The children liked all these things because 
they knew them so well. 

233 


234 


PUCK OF POOR’S HILL 


The Bee Boy, Hobden’s son, who is not 
quite right in his head, though he can do any¬ 
thing with bees, slipped in like a shadow. 
They only guessed it when Bess’s stump-tail 
wagged against them. 

A big voice began singing outside in the 
drizzle:— 

* Old Mother Laidinwool had nigh twelve months 
been dead, 

She heard the hops were doing well, and then popped 
up her head.’ 

‘There can’t be two people made to holler 
like that!’ cried old Hobden, wheeling round. 

' For, says she, “The boys I’ve picked with when I 
was young and fair, 

They’re bound to be at hoppin’, and I’m-’’ ’ 

A man showed at the doorway. 

‘Well, well! They do say hoppin’ll draw 
the very deadest; and now I belieft ’em. 
You, Tom ? Tom Shoesmith ! ’ Hobden 
lowered his lanthom. 

‘You’re a hem of a time makin’ your mind 
to it, Ralph! ’ The stranger strode in—three 
full inches taller than Hobden, a grey- 
whiskered, brown-faced giant with clear blue 
eyes. They shook hands, and the children 
could hear the hard palms rasp together. 

‘You ain’t lost none o’ your grip,’ said 
Hobden. ‘Was it thirty or forty year back 
you broke my head at Peasmarsh Fair?’ 

‘ Only thirty, an’ no odds ’tween us regardin’ 
heads, neither. ITou had it back at me with 
a hop-pole. How did we get home that night ? 
Swimmin’ ? ’ 


'DYMCHURCH FLIT’ 


235 


' Same way the pheasant come into Gubbs’s 
pocket—by a little luck an’ a deal o’ con- 
jurin.” Old Hobden laughed in his deep 
chest. 

‘ I see you’ve not forgot your way about 
the woods. D’ye do any o’ this still?’ The 
stranger pretended to look along a gun. 

Hobden answered with a quick movement 
of the hand as though he were pegging down 
a rabbit-wire. 

‘No. Thafs all that’s left me now. Age 
she must as Age she can. An’ what’s your 
news since all these years? ’ 

* Oh, I’ve bin to Plymouth, I’ve bin to Dover— 

I’ve bin ramblin’, boys, the wide world over,’ 

the man answered cheerily. ‘ I reckon I 
know as much of Old England as most.’ He 
turned towards the children and winked 
boldly. 

‘ I lay they told you a sight o’ lies, then. 
I’ve been into England fur as Wiltsheer once. 
I was cheated proper over a pair of hedging- 
gloves,’ said Hobden. 

‘There’s fancy-talkin’ everywhere. You've 
cleaved to your own parts pretty middlin’ 
close, Ralph. ’ 

‘Can’t shift an old tree ’thout it dyin’, ’ 
Hobden chuckled. ‘ An’ I be no more anxious 
to die than you look to be to help me with 
my hops to-night.’ 

The great man leaned against the brick¬ 
work of the roundel, and swung his arms 
abroad. ‘ Hire me! ’ was all he said, and they 
stumped upstairs laughing. 


236 PUCK OF POOR’S HILL 


The children heard their shovels rasp on 
the cloth where the yellow hops lie drying 
above the fires, and all the oast-house filled 
with the sweet, sleepy smell as they were 
turned. 

‘Who is it?’ Una whispered to the Bee 
Boy. 

‘ Dunno, no more’n you—if you dunno, ’ 
said he, and smiled. 

The voices on the drying-floor talked and 
chuckled together, and the heavy footsteps 
went back and forth. Presently a hop- 
pocket dropped through the press-hole over¬ 
head, and stiffened and fattened as they 
shovelled it full. ‘Clank!’ went the press, 
and rammed the loose stuff into tight cake. 

‘Gently!’ they heard Hobden cry. ‘You’ll 
bust her crop if you lay on so. You be as 
careless as Gleason’s bull, Tom. Come an’ 
sit by the fires. She’ll do now.’ 

They came down, and as Hobden opened 
the shutter to see if the potatoes were done 
Tom Shoesmith said to the children, ‘Put 
a plenty salt on ’em. That’ll show you the 
sort o’ man I be.’ Again he winked, and 
again the Bee Boy laughed and Una stared 
at Dan. 

‘/ know what sort o’ man you be,’ old Hob¬ 
den grunted, groping for the potatoes round 
the fire. 

‘Do ye?’ Tom went on behind his back. 
‘ Some of us can’t abide Horseshoes, or Church 
Bells, or Running Water; an’, talkin’ o’ 
runnin’ water’—he turned to Hobden, who 
was backing out of the roundel—‘ d’you mind 


‘DYMCHURCH FLIT’ 


237 

the great floods at Robertsbridge, when the 
miller’s man was drowned in the street?’ 

‘ Middlin’ well. ’ Old Hobden let himself 
down on the coals by the fire door. ' I was 
courtin’ my woman on the Marsh that year. 
Carter to Mus’ Plum I was —gettin’ ten 
shillin’s week. Mine was a Marsh woman. ’ 

‘ Won’erf ul odd-gates place—Romney 
Marsh,’ said Tom Shoesmith. ‘I’ve heard 
say the world’s divided like into Europe, 
Ashy, Afriky, Ameriky, Australy, an’ Romney 
Marsh.’ 

‘The Marsh folk think so,’ said Hobden. 

‘ I had a hem o’ trouble to get my woman to 
leave it.’ 

‘Where did she come out of? I’ve forgot, 
Ralph.’ 

Dymchurch under the Wall,’ Hobden an¬ 
swered, a potato in his hand. 

‘Then she’d be a Pett—or a Whitgift, 
would she ? ’ 

‘ Whitgift. ’ Hobden broke open the potato 
and ate it with the curious neatness of men 
who make most of their meals in the blowy 
open. ‘ She growed to be quite reasonable- 
like after livin’ in the Weald awhile, but 
our first twenty year or two she was odd- 
fashioned, no bounds. And she was a won’er- 
ful hand with bees.’ He cut away a little 
piece of potato and threw it out to the 
door. 

‘Ah! I’ve heard say the Whitgifts could 
see further through a millstone than most,’ 
said Shoesmith. ‘Did she, now?’ 

‘She was honest-innocent of any nigro- 


238 PUCK OF POOR’S HILL 

mancin',* said Hobden. ‘Only she’d read 
signs and sinnifications out o’ birds flyin’, stars 
failin’, bees hivin’, and such. An’ she’d lie 
awake—listenin’ for calls, she said.’ 

‘ That don’t prove naught,’ said Tom. ‘ All 
Marsh folk has been smugglers since time 
€verlastin’. ’Twould be in her blood to 
listen out o’ nights.’ 

‘Nature-ally,’ old Hobden replied, smiling. 
‘I mind when there was smugglin’ a sight 
nearer us than the Marsh be. But that 
wasn’t my woman’s trouble. ’Twas a passel 
o’ no-sense talk,’ he dropped his voice, ‘ about 
Pharisees. ’ 

‘ Yes. I’ve heard Marsh men beleft in ’em.’ 
Tom looked straight at the wide-eyed children 
beside Bess. 

‘Pharisees,* cried Una. ‘Fairies? Oh, I 
see!’ 

‘People o’ the Hills,* said the Bee Boy, 
throwing half of his potato towards the door. 

‘There you bel’ said Hobden, pointing at 
him. ‘ My boy, he has her eyes and her out- 
gate senses. That’s what she called ’em!’ 

‘And what did you think of it all?’ 

‘Um—um,’ Hobden rumbled. ‘A man 
that uses fields an’ shaws after dark as much 
as I’ve done, he don’t go out of his road 
excep’ for keepers.’ 

‘But settin’ that aside?’ said Tom, coax- 
ingly. ‘ I saw ye throw the Good Piece out-at 
doors just now. Do ye believe or —do ye?’ 

'There was a great black eye to that tater,’ 
said Hobden, indignantly. 

‘My liddle eye didn’t see un, then. It 


‘DYMCHURCH FLIT^ 


239 


looked as if you meant it for—for Any One 
that might need it. But settin' that aside. 
D’ye believe or —do ye?’ 

‘I ain’t sayin’ nothin,’ because I’ve heard 
naught, an’ I’ve seen naught. But if you 
was to say there was more things after dark 
in the shaws than men, or fur, or feather, or 
fin, I dunno as I’d go farabout to call you a 
liar. Now turn again, Tom. What’s your say ? ’ 

‘ I’m like you. I say nothin’. But I’ll tell 
you a tale, an’ you can fit it as how you please. ’ 

‘Passel o’ no-sense stuff,’ growled Hobden, 
but he filled his pipe. 

‘The Marsh men they call it Dymchurch 
Flit,’ Tom went on slowly. ‘Hap you’ve 
heard it?’ 

‘My woman she’ve told it me scores o’ 
times. Dunno as I didn’t end by belieft in’ it 
—sometimes.’ 

Hobden crossed over as he spoke, and 
sucked with his pipe at the yellow lanthorn- 
flame. Tom rested one great elbow on one 
great knee, where he sat among the coal. 

‘ Have you ever bin in the Marsh? ’ he said 
to Dan. 

‘Only as far as Rye, once,’ Dan answered. 

‘Ah, that’s but the edge. Back behind of 
her there’s steeples settin’ beside churches, 
an’ wise women settin’ beside their doors, an’ 
the sea settin’ above the land, an’ ducks 
herdin’ wild in the diks’ (he meant ditches). 

‘ The Marsh is justabout riddled with diks an’ 
sluices, an’ tide-gates an’ water-lets. You 
can hear em’ bubblin’ an’ grummelin’ when 
the tide works in em’, an’ then you hear the 


240 


PUCK OF POOR’S HILL 


sea rangin’ left and right-handed all up along 
the Wall. You’ve seen how flat she is—the 
Marsh? You’d think nothin’ easier than to 
walk eend-on acrost her? Ah, but the diks 
an’ the water-lets, they twists the roads about 
as ravelly as witch-yam on the spindles. So 
ye get all turned round in broad daylight.’ 

‘ That’s because they’ve dreened the waters 
into the diks,’ said Hobden. ‘ When I courted 
my woman the rushes was green—Eh me! the 
rushes was green—an’ the Bailiff o’ the 
Marshes, he rode up and down as free as the 
fog.’ 

‘ Who was he? ’ said Dan. 

‘Why, the Marsh fever an’ ague. He’ve 
clapped me on the shouder once or twice till 
I shook proper. But now the dreenin’ off 
of the waters have done away with the fevers; 
so they make a joke, like, that the Bailiff o’ 
the Marshes broke his neck in a dik. A 
won’erful place for bees an’ ducks ’tis too.' 

‘ An’ old! ’ Tom went on. ‘ Flesh an’ Blood 
have been there since Time Everlastin’ Be¬ 
yond. Well, now, speakin’ among themselves, 
the Marshmen say that from Time Ever- 
lastin’ Beyond the Pharisees favoured the 
Marsh above the rest of Old England. I lay 
the Marshmen ought to know. They’ve been 
out after dark, father an’ son, smugglin’ some 
one thing or t’other, since ever wool grew to 
sheep’s backs. They say there was always 
a middlin’ few Pharisees to be seen on the 
Marsh. Impident as rabbits, they was. 
They’d dance on the nakid roads in the nakid 
daytime; they’d flash their liddle green lights 


‘DYMCHURCH FLIT’ 


241 


along the diks, cornin’ an’ goin’, like honest 
smugglers. Yes, an’ times they’d lock the 
church doors against parson an’ clerk of 
Sundays! ’ 

‘ That ’ud be smugglers layin’ in the lace or 
the brandy till they could run it out o’ the 
Marsh. I’ve told my woman so,’ said Hob- 
den. 

‘ I’ll lay she didn’t beleft it, then—not if she 
was a Whitgift. A won’erful choice place 
for Pharisees, the Marsh, by all accounts, till 
Queen Bess’s father he come in with his 
Reformatories.’ 

‘Would that be a Act o’ Parliament like?’ 
Hobden asked. 

‘ Sure-ly 1 ’Can’t do nothing in Old England 
without Act, Warrant, an’ Summons. He got 
his Act allowed him, an’, they say. Queen 
Bess’s father he used the parish churches 
something shameful. Justabout tore the giz¬ 
zards out of I dunnamany. Some folk in 
England they held with ’en; but some they 
saw it different, an’ it eended in ’em takin’ 
sides an’ burnin’ each other no bounds, ac¬ 
cordin’ which side was top, time bein.’ That 
tarrified the Pharisees: for Goodwill among 
Flesh an’ Blood is meat an’ drink to ’em, an' 
ill-will is poison.’ 

‘Same as bees,’ said the Bee Boy. ‘Bees 
won’t stay by a house where there’s hating.’ 

‘ True, ’ said Tom. ‘ This Reformations tar¬ 
rified the Pharisees same as the reaper goin’ 
round a last stand o’ wheat tarrifies rabbits. 
They packed into the Marsh from all parts, 
and they says, “ Fair or foul, we must flit out 


242 


PUCK OF POOK’S HILL 


o* this, for Merry England's done with, an’ 
we’re reckoned among the Images.” ’ 

‘Did they all see it that way?’ said Hob- 
den. 

‘All but one that was called Robin—if 
you’ve heard of him. What are you laugh¬ 
ing at?’ Tom turned to Dan. ‘The Phari¬ 
sees’s trouble didn’t tech Robin, because he’d 
cleaved middlin’ close to people like. No 
more he never meant to go out of Old England 
•—not he; so he was sent messagin’ for help 
among Flesh an’ Blood. But Flesh an’ 
Blood must always think of their own concerns, 
an’ Robin couldn’t get through at ’em, ye see. 
They thought it was tide-echoes off the 
Marsh.’ 

‘ What did you—what did the fai—Pharisees 
want ? ’ Una asked. 

‘A boat to be sure. Their liddle wings 
could no more cross Channel than so many 
tired butterflies. A boat an’ a crew they 
desired to sail ’em over to France, where yet 
awhile folks hadn’t tore down the Images. 
They couldn’t abide cruel Canterbury Bells 
ringin’ to Bulverhithe for more pore men an’ 
women to be bumded, nor the King’s proud 
messenger ridin’ through the land givin’ 
orders to tear down the Images. They 
couldn’t abide it no shape. Nor yet they 
couldn’t get their boat an’ crew to .flit by 
without Leave an’ Good-will from Flesh an’ 
Blood; an’ Flesh an’ Blood came an’ went 
about its own business the while the Marsh 
was swarvin’ up, an’ swarvin’ up with Phari¬ 
sees from all England over, striving all means 


‘DYMCHURCH FLIT* 


243 


to get through at Flesh an’ Blood to tell ’en 
their sore need. ... I don’t know as you’ve 
ever heard say Pharisees are like chickens?’ 

‘My woman used to say that too,’ said 
Hobden, folding his brown arms. 

‘They be. You run too many chickens 
together, an’ the ground sickens like, an’ you 
get a squat, an’ your chickens die. ’Same 
way, you crowd Pharisees all in one place— 
they don’t die, but Flesh an’ Blood walkin’ 
among ’em is apt to sick up an’ pine off. 
They don’t mean it, an’ Flesh an’ Blood don’t 
know it, but that’s the truth—as I’ve heard. 
The Pharisees through bein’ all stenched up 
an’ frighted, an’ tryin’ to come through with 
their supplications, they nature-ally changed 
the thin airs and humours in Flesh an’ Blood. 
It lay on the Marsh like thunder. Men saw 
their churches ablaze with the wildfire in the 
windows after dark; they saw their cattle 
scatterin’ and no man scarin’; their sheep 
flockin’ and no man drivin’; their horses 
latherin’ an’ no man leadin’; they saw the 
liddle low green lights more than ever in the 
dik-sides; they heard the liddle feet patterin’ 
more than ever round the houses; an’ night 
an’ day, day an’ night, ’twas all as though 
they were bein’ creeped up on, and hinted at 
by some One or Other that couldn’t rightly 
shape their trouble. Oh, I lay they sweated! 
Man an’ maid, woman an’ child, their Nature 
done ’em no service all the weeks while the 
Marsh was swarvin’ up with Pharisees. But 
they was Flesh an’ Blood, an’ Marsh men 
before all. They reckoned the signs sinnified 


244 


PUCK OF POOR’S HILL 


trouble for the Marsh. Or that the sea ’ud 
rear up against Dymchurch Wall an’ they’d 
be drownded like Old Winchelsea; or that 
the Plague was cornin’. So they looked for 
the meanin’ in the sea or in the clouds—far an’ 
high up. They never thought to look near 
an’ knee-high, where they could see naught. 

‘Now there was a poor widow at Dym¬ 
church under the Wall, which, lacking man 
or property, she had the more time for feeling; 
and she come to feel there was a Trouble out¬ 
side her doorstep bigger an’ heavier than 
aught she’d ever carried over it. She had 
two sons—one bom blind, and t’other stmck 
dumb through failin’ off the Wall when he 
was liddle. They was men grown, but not 
wage-earnin’, an’ she worked for ’em, keepin’ 
bees and answerin’ Questions.’ 

‘What sort of questions?’ said Dan. 

‘Like where lost things might be found, 
an’ what to put about a crooked baby’s neck, 
an’ how to join parted sweethearts. She 
felt the Trouble on the Marsh same as eels 
feel thunder. She was a wise woman.’ 

‘ My woman was won’erful weather-tender, 
too,’ said Hobden. ‘I’ve seen her brish 
sparks like off an anvil out of her hair in 
thunderstorms. But she never laid out to 
answer Questions.’ 

‘ This woman was a Seeker like, an’ Seekers 
they sometimes find. One night, while she 
lay abed, hot an’ aching, there come a Dream 
an tapped at her window, and “ Widow 
Whitgift,” it said, “Widow Whitgift!” 

‘ First, by the wings an’ the whistling, she 


‘DYMCHURCH FLIT^ 


245 


thought it was peewits, but last she arose an* 
dressed herself, an’ opened her door to the 
Marsh, an’ she felt the Trouble an’ the Groan¬ 
ing all about her, strong as fever an’ ague, an’ 
she calls: “What is it? Oh, what is it?” 

‘Then ’twas all like the frogs in the diks 
peeping: then ’twas all like the reeds in the 
diks clipclapping; an’ then the great Tide- 
wave rummelled along the Wall, an’ she 
couldn’t hear proper. 

‘ Three times she called, an* three times 
the Tide-wave did her down. But she catched 
the quiet between, an’ she cries out, “What 
is the Trouble on the Marsh that’s been 
lying down with my heart an’ arising with 
my body this month gone?” She felt a 
liddle hand lay hold on her gown-hem, 
an’ she stooped to the pull o’ that liddle hand.’ 

Tom Shoesmith spread his huge fist before 
the fire and smiled at it. 

‘“Will the sea drown the Marsh?” she 
says. She was a Marsh-woman first an’ 
foremost. 

‘“No,” says the liddle voice. “Sleep 
sound for all o’ that.” 

‘“Is the Plague cornin’ to the Marsh?” 
she says. Them was all the ills she knowed. 

‘“No. Sleep sound for all o’ that,” says 
Robin. 

‘ She turned about, half mindful to go in, 
but the liddle voices grieved that shrill an’ 
sorrowful she turns back, an’ she cries' “If 
it is not a Trouble of Flesh an’ Blood, what 
can I do?” 

‘The Pharisees cried out upon her from 


246 PUCK OF POOR’S HILL 


all round to fetch them a boat to sail to France, 
an’ come back no more. 

‘"‘There’s a boat on the Wall,” she says, 
“ but I can’t push it down to the sea, nor sail 
it when ’tis there.” 

“‘Lend us your sons,” says all the Phari¬ 
sees. “Give ’em Leave an’ Good-will to 
sail it for us. Mother—O Mother!” 

‘“One’s dumb, an’ t’other’s blind,” she 
says. “But all the dearer me for that; and 
you’ll lose them in the big sea.” The voices 
justabout pierced through her. An’ there 
was children’s voices too. She stood out all 
she could, but she couldn’t rightly stand 
against that. So she says: “If you can 
draw my sons for your job. I’ll not hinder ’em. 
You can’t ask no more of a Mother. ” 

‘She saw them liddle green lights dance 
an’ cross till she was dizzy; she heard them 
liddle feet patterin’ by the thousand; she 
heard cruel Canterbury Bells ringing to Bul- 
verhithe, an’ she heard the great Tide-wave 
ranging along the Wall. That was while 
the Pharisees was workin’ a Dream to wake 
her two sons asleep: an’ while she bit on her 
fingers she saw them two she’d bore come out 
an’ pass her with never a word. She followed 
’em, cryin’ pitiful, to the old boat on the Wall, 
an’ that they took an’ runned down to the 
Sea. 

‘When they’d stepped mast an’ sail the 
blind son speaks up: “ Mother, v/e’re waitin’ 
your Leave an’ Good-will to take Them over.” ’ 

Tom Shoesmith threw back his head and 
half shut his eyes. 


‘DYMCHURCH FLIT* 


247 


* Eh, me ! ’ he said. ‘ She was a fine, valiant 
woman, the Widow Whitgift. She stood 
twistin’ the ends of her long hair over her 
fingers, an’ she shook like a poplar, makin’ 
up her mind. The Pharisees all about they 
hushed their children from cryin’ an’ they 
waited dumb-still. She was all their depen¬ 
dence. ’Thout her Leave an’ Goodwill they 
could not pass; for she was the Mother. So 
she shook like a asp-tree makin’ up her mind. 
’Last she drives the word past her teeth, an’ 
“Go!” she says. “Go with my Leave an’ 
Goodwill.” 

‘Then I saw—then, they say, she had to 
brace back same as if she was wadin’ in tide¬ 
water; for the Pharisees justabout flowed 
past her—down the beach to the boat, I 
dunnamany of ’em—with their wives an’ 
children an’ valooables, all escapin’ out of 
cruel Old England. Silver you could hear 
clinkin’, an’ liddle bundles hove down dunt 
on the bottom-boards, an’ passels o’ liddle 
swords an’ shield’s raklin’, an’ liddle fingers 
an’ toes scratchin’ on the boatside to board 
her when the two sons pushed her off. That 
boat she sunk lower an’ lower, but all the 
Widow could see in it was her boys movin’ 
hampered-like to get at the tackle. Up sail 
they did, an’ away they went, deep as a Rye 
barge, away into the off-shore mistes, an’ 
the Widow Whitgift she sat down and eased 
her grief till momin’ light.’ 

‘I never heard she was all alone,’ said 
Hobden. 

T remember now. The one called Robin 


248 


PUCK OF POOR’S HILL 


he stayed with her, they tell. She was all 
too grievious to listen to his promises.’ 

‘Ah! She should ha’ made her bargain 
beforehand. I alius told my woman so!’ 
Hobden cried. 

‘ No. She loaned her sons for a pure love- 
loan, bein’ as she sensed the Trouble on the 
Marshes, an’ was simple good-willing to ease 
it.’ Tom laughed softly. ‘She done that. 
Yes, she done that! From Hithe to Bul- 
verthithe, fretty man an’ petty maid, ailin’ 
woman an’ wailin’ child, they took the ad¬ 
vantage of the change in the thin airs just 
about as soon as the Pharisees flitted. Folks 
come out fresh an’ shining all over the Marsh 
like snails after wet. An’ that while the 
Widow Whitgift sat grievin’ on the Wall. 
She might have beleft us—she might have 
trusted her sons would be sent back! She 
fussed, no bounds, when their boat come in 
after three days.’ 

‘And, of course, the sons were both quite 
cured?’ said Una. 

‘ No-o. That would have been out o’ 
Nature. She got ’em back as she sent ’em. 
The blind man he hadn’t seen naught of any¬ 
thing, an’ the dumb man nature-ally, he 
couldn’t say aught of what he’d seen. I 
reckon that was why the Pharisees pitched 
on ’em for the ferrying job.’ 

‘ But what did you—what did Robin, prom¬ 
ise the Widow?’ said Dan. 

‘What did he promise, now?’ Tom pre¬ 
tended to think. ‘Wasn’t your woman a 
Whitgift, Ralph? Didn’t she say?’ 


^DYMCHURCH FLIT^ 


249 

‘ She told me a passel o’ no-sense stuff when 
he was born.’ Hobden pointed at his son. 
'There was always to be one of ’em that 
could see further into a millstone than most.’ 

‘ Me ! That’s me ! ’ said the Bee Boy so 
suddenly that they all laughed. 

‘I’ve got it now!’ cried Tom, slapping his 
knee. ‘So long as Whitgift blood lasted, 
Robin promised there would allers be one o’ 
her stock that—that no Trouble ’ud lie on, 
no Maid ’ud sigh on, no Night could frighten, 
no Fright could harm, no Harm could make 
sin, an’ no Woman could make a fool.’ 

‘ Well, ain’t that just me? ’ said the Bee Boy, 
where he sat in the silver square of the great 
September moon that was staring into the 
oast-house door. 

‘They was the exact words she told me 
when we first found he wasn’t like others. 
But it beats me how you known ’em,’ said 
Hobden. 

‘Aha! There’s more under my hat besides 
hair!’ Tom laughed and stretched himself. 

‘ When I’ve seen these two young folk home, 
we’ll make a night of old days, Ralph, with 
passin’ old tales—eh? An’ where might you 
live?’he said, gravely, to Dan. ‘An’ do you 
think your Pa ’ud give me a drink for takin’ 
you there, Missy?’ 

They giggled so at this that they had to 
run out. Tom picked them both up, set one 
on each broad shoulder, and tramped across 
the ferny pasture where the cows puffed 
milky puffs at them in the moonlight. 

‘Oh, Puck! Puck! I guessed you right 


250 


PUCK OF POOR’S HILL 


from when you talked about the salt. How 
could you ever do it?’ Una cried, swinging 
along delighted. 

‘Do what?’ he said, and climbed the stile 
by the pollard oak. 

‘Pretend to be Tom Shoesmith,’ said Dan, 
and they ducked to avoid the two little ashes 
that grow by the bridge over the brook. Tom 
was almost running. 

‘Yes. That’s my name, Mus’ Dan,’ he 
said, hurrying over the silent shining lawn, 
where a rabbit sat by the big white-thom 
near the croquet ground. ‘ Here you be. ’ 
He strode into the old kitchen yard, and slid 
them down as Ellen came to ask questions. 

‘I’m helping in Mus’ Spray’s oast-house,’ 
he said to her. ‘No, I’m no foreigner. I 
knowed this country ’fore your Mother was 
bom; an’—yes it’s dry work oasting. Miss. 
Thank you.’ 

Ellen went to get a jug, and the children 
went in—magicked once more by Oak, Ash, 
and Thom! 




A THREE-PART SONG 


Fm just in love with all these three. 

The Weald and the Marsh and the Down countrie;. 
Nor I don't know which I love the most, 

The Weald or the Marsh or the white chalk 
coast! 

Fve buried my heart in a ferny hill, 

Twix' a liddle low Shaw an' a great high Gill, 

Oh hop-vine yaller and woodsmoke blue, 

I reckon you'll keep her middling true! 

Fve loosed my mind for to out and run. 

On a Marsh that was old when Kings begun; 

Oh Romney Level and Brenzett reeds, 

I reckon you know what my mind needs I 

Fve given my soul to the Southdown grass, 

And sheep-bells tinkled where you pass. 

Oh Firle an' Ditchling an' sails at sea, 

I reckon you'll keep my soul or me! 


251 


1 


THE TREASURE AND THE LAW 












SONG OF THE FIFTH RIVER 


When first by Eden Tree^ 

The Four Great Rivers ran^ 

To each was appointed a Man 
Her Prince and Ruler to be. 


But after this was ordained, 

{The ancient legends tell), 

There came dark Israel, 

For whom no River remained. 

Then He That is Wholly Just, 

Said to him: ‘ Fling on the ground 
A handful of yellow dust. 

And a Fifth Great River shall run. 
Mightier than these Four, 

In secret the Earth around; 

And Her secret evermore. 

Shall be shown to thee and thy Race* 

So it was said and done. 

And, deep in the veins of Earth, 

And, fed by a thousand springs 
That comfort the market-place. 

Or sap the power of Kings, 

The Fifth Great River had birth, 
Even as it was foretold — 

"^he Secret River of Gold! 


256 


PUCK OF POOR'S HILL 


And Israel laid down 
His sceptre and his crown^ 

1 0 brood on that River hank, 

Where the waters flashed and sank. 
And burrowed in earth and fell, 

And hided a season below; 

F or reason that none might know. 
Save only Israel. 

He is Lord of the Last — 

The Fifth, most wonderful. Flood, 

He hears her thunder past 
And Her Song is in his blood. 

He can foresay: ‘ She will fall,* 

For he knows which fountain dries^ 
Behind which desert belt 
A thousand leagues to the South, 

He can foresay: 'She will rise.* 

He knows what far snows melt; 
Along what mountain wall 
A thousand leagues to the North. 

He snuffs the coming drouth 
As he snuffs the coming rain. 

He knows what each will bring forth 
And turns it to his gain. 

A Prince without a Sword, 

A Ruler without a Throne; 

Israel follows his quest :— 

In every land a guest. 

Of many lands the lord. 

In no land King is he. 

But the Fifth Great River keeps 
The secret of her deeps 
For Israel alone, 
it was ordered to be. 


THE TREASURE AND THE LAW 


ATOW it was the third week in November, 

^ and the woods rang with the noise of 
pheasant-shooting. No one hunted that steep, 
cramped country except the village beagles, 
who, as often as not, escaped from their ken¬ 
nels and made a day of their own. Dan and 
Una found a couple of them towling round the 
kitchen-garden after the laundry cat. The 
little brutes were only too pleased to go 
rabbiting, so the children ran them all along 
the brook pastures and into Little Lindens 
farm-yard, where the old sow vanquished 
them—and up to the quarry-hole, where they 
started a fox. He headed for Far Wood, and 
there they frightened out all the pheasants 
who were sheltering from a big beat across 
the valley. Then the cruel guns began again, 
and they grabbed the beagles lest they should 
stray and get hurt. 

‘ I wouldn’t be a pheasant—in November— 
for a lot,’ Dan panted, as he caught Folly by 
the neck. ‘Why did you laugh that horrid 
way ? ’ 

‘I didn’t,’ said Una, sitting on Flora, the 
fat lady-dog. ‘Oh, look! The silly birds 
are going back to their own woods instead of 
ours, where they would be safe.’ 

‘Safe till it pleased you to kill them.’ An 
old man, so tall he was almost a giant, stepped 
257 


258 PUCK OF POOR'S HILL 


from behind the clump of hollies by ‘Volaterrae. * 
The children jumped, and the dogs dropped 
like setters. He wore a sweeping gown of 
dark thick stuff, lined and edged with yellow¬ 
ish fur, and he bowed a bent-down bow that 
made them feel both proud and ashamed. 
Then he looked at them steadily, and they 
stared back without doubt or fear. 

‘You are not afraid?’ he said, running his 
hands through his splendid grey beard. ‘ Not 
afraid that those men yonder’—he jerked 
his head towards the incessant pop-pop of 
the guns from the lower woods—‘will do 
you hurt?’ 

‘We-eir—Dan liked to be accurate, espe¬ 
cially when he was shy—‘old Hobd—a friend 
of mine told me that one of the beaters got 
peppered last week—hit in the leg, I mean. 
You see, Mr. Meyer will fire at rabbits. But 
he gave Waxy Garnett a quid—sovereign, 
I mean—and Waxy told Hobden he’d have 
stood both barrels for half the money.’ 

‘He doesn’t understand,’ Una cried, watch¬ 
ing the pale, troubled face. ‘ Oh, I wish-’ 

She had scarcely said it when Puck rustled 
out of the hollies and spoke to the man quickly 
in foreign words. Puck wore a long cloak 
too—the afternoon was just frosting down— 
and it changed his appearance altogether. 

‘Nay, nay!’ he said at last. ‘You did not 
understand the boy. A freeman was a little 
hurt, by pure mischance, at the hunting.’ 

‘I know that mischance! What did his 
Lord do? Laugh and ride over him?' the 
old man sneered. 



THE TREASURE AND THE LAW 


259 


‘ It was one of your own people did the hurt, 
Kadmiel.’ Puck’s eyes twinkled maliciously. 
‘ So he gave the freeman a piece of gold, and 
no more was said.’ 

‘A Jew drew blood from a Christian and 
no more was said?’ Kadmiel cried. ‘Never! 
When did they torture him?’ 

‘ No man may be bound, or fined, or slain 
till he has been judged by his peers,’ Puck 
insisted. ‘ There is but one Law in Old Eng¬ 
land for Jew or Christian—the Law that was 
signed at Runnymede.’ 

‘Why, that’s Magna Chartal’ Dan whis¬ 
pered. It was one of the few history dates 
that he could remember. Kadmiel turned 
on him with a sweep and a whirr of his spicy- 
scented gown. 

‘ Dost thou know of that, babe ? ’ he cried, 
and lifted his hands in wonder. 

‘Yes,’ said Dan, firmly. 

‘ Magna Charta was signed by John, 

That Henry the Third put his heel upon. 

And old Hobden says that if it hadn’t been 
for her (he calls everything “ her,” you know), 
the keepers would have him clapped in Lewes 
Gaol all the year round.’ 

Again Puck translated to Kadmiel in the 
strange, solemn-sounding language, and at 
last Kadmiel laughed. 

‘Out of the mouths of babes do we learn,’ 
said he. ‘But tell me now, and I will not 
call you a babe but a Rabbi, why did the 
King sign the roll of the New Law at Runny¬ 
mede? For he was a King.’ 


26 o 


PUCK OF POOK’S HILL 


Dan looked sideways at his sister. It was 
her turn. 

‘Because he jolly well had to/ asid Una, 
softly. ‘ The Barons made him.' 

‘ Nay,’ Kadmiel answered, shaking his head. 
‘ You Christians always forget that gold does 
more than the sword. Our good King signed 
because he could not borrow more money 
from us bad Jews.’ He curved his shoulders 
as he spoke. ‘A King without gold is a 
snake with a broken back, and’—his nose 
sneered up and his eyebrows frowned down— 
‘it is a good deed to break a snake’s back. 
That was my work,’ he cried, triumphantly, 
to Puck. ‘ Spirit of Earth, bear witness that 
that was my work!’ He shot up to his full 
towering height, and his words rang like a 
trumpet. He had a voice that changed its 
tone almost as an opal changes colour— 
sometimes deep and thundery, sometimes 
thin and waily, but always it made you 
listen. 

‘Many people can bear witness to that,’ 
Puck answered. ‘Tell these babes how it 
was done. Remember, Master, they do not 
know Doubt or Fear.’ 

‘ So I saw in their faces when we met, ’ said 
Kadmiel. ‘ Yet surely, surely they are taught 
to spit upon Jews ? ’ 

‘Are they?’ said Dan, much interested. 
‘Where at?’ 

Puck fell back a pace, laughing. ‘ Kadmiel 
is thinking of King John’s reign,’ he ex¬ 
plained. ‘ His people were badly treated 
then.’ 


THE TREASURE AND THE LAW 261 


'Oh, we know thaty'* they answered, and 
(it was very rude of them, but they could not 
help it) they stared straight at Kadmiel’s 
mouth to see if his teeth were all there. It 
stuck in their lesson-memory that King John 
used to pull out Jews’ teeth to make them 
lend him money. 

Kadmiel understood the look and smiled 
bitterly. 

'No. Your King never drew my teeth: I 
think, perhaps, I drew his. Listen! I was 
not bom among Christians, but among Moors 
—in Spain—in a little white town under the 
mountains. Yes, the Moors are cruel, but 
at least their learned men dare to think. It 
was prophesied of me at my birth that I 
should be a Lawgiver to a People of a strange 
speech and a hard language. We Jews are 
always looking for the Prince and the Law¬ 
giver to come. Why not? My people in the 
town (we were very few) set me apart as a 
child of the prophecy—the Chosen of the 
Chosen. We Jews dream so many dreams. 
You would never guess it to see us slink about 
the rubbish-heaps in our quarter; but at the 
day’s end—doors shut, candles lit—aha ! then 
we become the Chosen again. ’ 

He paced back and forth through the wood 
as he talked. The rattle of the shot-guns 
never ceased, and the dogs whimpered a little 
and lay flat on the leaves. 

‘ I was a Prince. Yes! Think of a little 
Prince who had never known rough words in 
his own house handed over to shouting, 
bearded Rabbis, who pulled his ears and 


262 


PUCK OF POOR’S HILL 


filliped his nose, all that he might leam—leam 
—learn to be King when his time came. H6! 
Such a little Prince it was ! One eye he kept 
on the stone-throwing Moorish boys, and the 
other it roved about the streets looking for his 
Kingdom. Yes, and he learned to cry softly 
when he was hunted up and down those streets. 
He learned to do all things without noise. 
He played beneath his father’s table when the 
Great Candle was lit, and he listened as chil¬ 
dren listen to the talk of his father’s friends 
above the table. They came across the moun¬ 
tains, from out of all the world; for my Prince’s 
father was their councillor. They came from 
behind the armies of Sala-ud-Din: from 
Rome: from Venice: from England. They 
stole down our alley, they tapped secretly at 
our door, they took off their rags, they ar¬ 
rayed themselves, and they talked to my 
father at the wine. All over the world the 
heathen fought each other. They brought 
news of these wars, and while he played be¬ 
neath the table, my Prince heard these meanly- 
dressed ones decide between themselves how, 
and when, and for how long King should draw 
sword against King, and People rise up against 
People. Why not? There can be no war 
without gold, and we Jews know how the 
earth’s gold moves with the seasons, and the 
crops, and the winds; circling and looping and 
rising and sinking away like a river—a won¬ 
derful underground river. How should the 
foolish Kings know that while they fight and 
steal and kill?’ 

The children’s faces showed that they knew 


THE TREASURE AND THE LAW 263 

nothing at all as, with open eyes, they 
trotted and turned beside the long-striding 
old man. He twitched his gown over his 
shoulders, and a square plate of gold, studded 
with jewels, gleamed for an instant through 
the fur, like a star through flying snow. 

‘ No matter, ’ he said. ‘ But, credit me, m}^ 
Prince saw peace or war decided not once, 
but many times, by the fall of a coin spun 
between a Jew from Bury and a Jewess from 
Alexandria, in his father’s house, when the 
Great Candle was lit. Such power had we 
Jews among the Gentiles. Ah, my little 
Prince! Do you wonder that he learned 
quickly? Why not?’ He muttered to him¬ 
self and went on:— 

‘ My trade was that of a physician. When 
I had learned it in Spain I went to the East 
to find my Kingdom. Why not? A Jew is 
as free as a sparrow—or a dog. He goes 
where he is hunted. In the East I found 
libraries where men dared to think—schools 
of medicine where they dared to learn. I 
was diligent in my business. Therefore I 
stood before Kings. I have been a brother 
to Princes and a companion to beggars, and 
I have walked between the living and the 
dead. There was no profit in it. I did not 
find my Kingdom. So, in the tenth year of 
my travels, when I had reached the Utter¬ 
most Eastern Sea, I returned to my father’s 
house. God had wonderfully preserved my 
people. None had been slain, none even 
wounded, and only a few scourged. I be¬ 
came once more a son in my father’s house. 


264 


PUCK OF POOK’S HILL 


Again the Great Candle was lit; again the 
meanly-apparelled ones tapped on our door 
after dusk; and again I heard them weigh out 
peace and war, as they weighed out the gold 
on the table. But I was not rich—not very 
rich. Therefore, when those that had power 
and knowledge and wealth talked together, 
I sat in the shadow. Why not ? 

‘Yet all my wanderings had shown me one 
sure thing, which is, that a King without 
money is like a spear without a head. He 
cannot do much harm. I said, therefore, 
to Elias of Bury, a great one among our people: 
“Why do our people lend any more to the 
Kings that oppress us?” “Because,” said 
Elias, “ if we refuse they stir up their people 
against us, and the People are tenfold more 
cruel than Kings. If thou doubtest, come 
with me to Bury in England and live as I 
live.” 

‘ I saw my mother’s face across the candle- 
flame, and I said, “ I will come with thee to 
Bury. Maybe my Kingdom shall be there.” 

‘ So I sailed with Elias to the darkness and 
the cruelty of Bury in England, where there 
are no learned men. How can a man be wise 
if he hate? At Bury I kept his accounts for 
Elias, and I saw men kiU Jews there by the 
tower. No—none laid hands on Elias. He 
lent money to the King, and the King’s 
favour was about him. A King will not take 
the life so long as there is any gold. This 
King—yes, John—oppressed his people bit¬ 
terly because they would not give him money. 
Yet his land was a good land. If he had only 


THE TREASURE AND THE LAW 265 

given it rest he might have cropped it as a 
Christian crops his beard. But even that 
little he did not know; for God had deprived 
him of all understanding, and had multiplied 
pestilence, and famine, and despair upon the 
people. Therefore his people turned against 
us Jews, who are all people’s dogs. Why not? 
Lastly the Barons and the people rose to¬ 
gether against the King because of his cruel¬ 
ties. Nay—nay—the Barons did not love 
the people, but they saw that if the King eat 
up and destroyed the common people, he 
would presently destroy the Barons. They 
joined then, as cats and pigs will join to slay a 
snake. I kept the accounts, and I watched all 
these things, for I remembered the Prophecy. 

‘A great gathering of Barons (to most of 
whom we had lent money) came to Bury, and 
there, after much talk and a thousand run- 
nings-about, they made a roll of the New 
Laws that they would force on the King. If 
he swore to keep those Laws, they would allow 
him a little money. That was the King’s. 
God—Money—to waste. They showed us 
the roll of the New Laws. Why not? We 
had lent them money. We knew all their 
counsels—we Jews shivering behind our doors 
in Bury.’ He threw out his hands suddenly. 

' We did not seek to be paid all in money. We 
sought Power—Power—Power! That is our 
God in our captivity. Power to use! 

‘I said to Elias: “These New Laws are 
good. Lend no more money to the King: so 
long as he has money he will lie and slay 
the people.” 


266 


PUCK OF POOR’S HILL 


‘‘‘Nay,” said Elias. “I know this people. 
They are madly cruel. Better one King than 
a thousand butchers. I have lent a little 
money to the Barons, or they would torture us, 
but my most I will lend to the King. He 
hath promised me a place near him at Court, 
where my wife and I shall be safe.” 

‘ “ But if the King be made to keep these 
New Laws,” I said, “ the land will have peace, 
and our trade will grow. If we lend he will 
fight again.” 

‘ “ Who made thee a Lawgiver in England ? ” 
said Elias. “I know this people. Let the 
dogs tear one another! I will lend the King 
ten thousand pieces of gold, and he can fight 
the Barons at his pleasure.” 

‘ “ There are not two thousand pieces of 
gold in all England this summer,” I said, for 
I kept the accounts, and I knew how the 
earth’s gold moved—that wonderful under¬ 
ground river! Elias barred home the windows, 
and, his hands about his mouth, he told me 
how, when he was trading with small wares 
in a French ship, he had come to the Castle 
of Pevensey.’ 

‘Oh!’ said Dan. ‘Pevensey again!’ and 
looked at Una, who nodded and skipped. 

‘ There, after they had scattered his pack up 
and down the Great Hall, some young knights 
carried him to an upper room, and dropped 
him into a well in a wall, that rose and fell 
with the tide. They called him Joseph, and 
threw torches at his wet head. Why not?’ 

‘Why, of course,’ cried Dan. ‘Didn’t you 
know it was-’ Puck held up his hand to 



THE TREASURE OF THE LAW 267 

stop him, and Kadmiel, who never noticed, 
went on. 

‘When the tide dropped he thought he 
stood on old armour, but feeling with his toes, 
he raked up bar on bar of soft gold. Some 
wicked treasure of the old days put away, 
and the secret cut off by the sword. I have 
heard the like before.* 

‘So have we,’ Una whispered. ‘But it 
wasn’t wicked a bit.’ 

‘ Elias took a morsel of the stuff with him, 
and thrice yearly he would return to Pevensey 
as a chapman, selling at no price or profit, till 
they suffered him to sleep in the empty room, 
where he would plumb and grope, and steal 
away a few bars. The great store of it still 
remained, and by long brooding he had come 
to look on it as his own. Yet when we thought 
how we should lift and convey it, we saw no 
way. This was before the Word of the Lord 
had come to me. A walled fortress pos¬ 
sessed by Normans; in the midst a forty- 
foot tide-well out of which to remove secretly 
many horse-loads of gold! Hopeless! So 
Elias wept. Adah, his wife, wept too. She 
had hoped to stand beside the Queen’s Chris¬ 
tian tiring-maids at Court, when the King 
should give them that place at Court which he 
had promised. Why not? She was bom in 
England—an odious woman. 

‘ The present evil to us was that Elias, out 
of his strong folly, had, as it were, promised the 
King that he would arm him with more gold. 
Wherefore the King in his camp stopped his 
ears against the Barons and the people. 


268 


PUCK OF POOK’S HILL 


Wherefore men died daily. Adah so desired 
her place at Court, she besought Elias to tell 
the King where the treasure lay, that the 
King might take it by force, and—they would 
trust in his gratitude. Why not? This Elias 
refused to do, for he looked on the gold as his 
own. They quarrelled, and they wept at the 
evening meal, and late in the night came one 
Langton—a priest, almost learned—to bor¬ 
row more money for the Barons. Elias and 
Adah went to their chamber.’ 

Kadmiel laughed scornfully in his beard. 
The shots across the valley stopped as the 
shooting-party changed their ground for the 
last beat. 

‘ So it was I, not Elias,’ he went on, quietly, 
Hhat made terms with Langton touching 
the fortieth of the New Laws.’ 

‘What terms?’ said Puck, quickly. ‘The 
Fortieth of the Great Charter say: “To 
none will we sell, refuse, or deny right or 
justice.” ’ 

‘True, but the Barons had written first: 
To no free man. It cost me two hundred 
broad pieces of gold to change those narrow 
words. Langton, the priest, understood. “Jew 
though thou art,” said he, “the change is 
just, and if ever Christian and Jew come to 
be equal in England thy people may thank 
thee.” Then he went out stealthily, as men 
do who deal with Israel by night. I think he 
spent my gift upon his altar. Why not? I 
have spoken with Langton. He was such a man 
as I might have been if—if we Jews had been 
a people. But yet, in many things, a child. 


THE TREASURE AND THE LAW 269 

' I heard Elias and Adah abovestairs quarrel, 
and, knowing the woman was the stronger, I 
saw that Elias would tell the King of the gold 
and that the King would continue in his 
stubbomess. Therefore I saw that the gold 
must be put away from the reach of any man. 
Of a sudden, the Word of the Lord came to 
me saying, “The Morning is come, O thou 
that dwellest in the land.’” 

Kadmiel halted, all black against the pale 
green sky beyond the wood—a huge robed 
figure, like the Moses in the picture-Bible. 

‘ I rose. I went out, and as I shut the door 
on that House of Foolishness, the woman 
looked from the window and whispered, “ I 
have prevailed on my husband to tell the 
King! ” I answered, “ There is no need. 
The Lord is with me.” 

‘ In that hour the Lord gave me full under¬ 
standing of all that I must do; and His Hand 
covered me in my ways. First I went to 
London, to a physician of our people, y^ho- 
sold me certain drugs that I needed. You 
shall see why. Thence I went swiftly to 
Pevensey. Men fought all around me, for 
there were neither rulers nor judges in ^he 
abominable land. Yet when I walked by 
them they cried out that I was one Ahasuerus, 
a Jew, condemned, as they believe, to live for 
ever, and they fled from me every ways. Thus 
the Lord saved me for my work, and at 
Pevensey I bought me a little boat and moored 
it on the mud beneath the Marsh-gate of the 
Castle. That also God showed me.’ 

He was as calm as though he were speaking 


270 


PUCK OF POOR’S HILL 


of some stranger, and his voice filled the little 
bare wood with rolling music. 

‘I cast’—his hand went to his breast, and 
again the strange jewel gleamed—' I cast the 
drugs which I had prepared into the common 
well of the Castle. Nay, I did no harm. The 
more we physicians know, the less do we do. 
Only the fool says: “I dare.” I caused a 
blotched and itching rash to break out upon 
their skins, but I knew it would fade in fifteen 
days. I did not stretch out my hand against 
their life. They in the Castle thought it was 
the Plague, and they ran forth, taking with 
them their very dogs. 

‘ A Christian physician, seeing that I was a 
Jew and a stranger, vowed that I had brought 
the sickness from London. This is the one 
time I have ever heard a Christian leech speak 
truth of any disease. Thereupon the people 
beat me, but a merciful woman said: “Do 
not kill him now. Push him into our Castle 
with his plague, and if, as he says, it will abate 
on the fifteenth day, we can kill him then.” 
Why not? They drove me across the draw¬ 
bridge of the Castle, and fled back to their 
booths. Thus I came to be alone with the 
treasure.’ 

‘But did you know this was all going to 
happen just right?’ said Una. 

‘ My Prophecy was that I should be a Law¬ 
giver to a People of a strange land and a hard 
speech. I knew I should not die. I washed 
my cuts. I found the tide-well in the wall, 
and from Sabbath to Sabbath I dove and 
dug there in that empty, Christian-smeUing 


THE TREASURE AND THE LAW 


271 


fortress. H6 ! I spoiled the Egyptians ! H6 ! 
If they had only known! I drew up many 
good loads of gold, which I loaded by night 
into my boat. There had been gold-dust too, 
but that had been washed away by the tides.’ 

‘Didn’t you ever wonder who had put it 
there?’ said Dan, stealing a glance at Puck’s 
calm, dark face under the hood of his gown. 
Puck shook his head and pursed his lips. 

‘ Often; for the gold was new to me,’ Kad- 
miel replied. ‘ I know the Golds. I can 
judge them in the dark; but this was heavier 
and redder than any we deal in. Perhaps 
it was the very gold of Parvaim. Eh, why 
not? It went to my heart to heave it on to 
the mud, but I saw well that if the evil thing 
remained, or if even the hope of finding it 
remained, the King would not sign the New 
Laws, and the land would perish.’ 

‘ Oh, Marvel! ’ said Puck, beneath his breath, 
rustling in the dead leaves. 

‘When the boat was loaded I washed my 
hands seven times, and pared beneath my 
nails, for I would not keep one grain. I went 
out by the little gate where the Castle’s refuse 
is thrown. I dared not hoist sail lest men 
should see me; but the Lord commanded the 
tide to bear me carefully, and I was far from 
land before the morning.’ 

‘Weren’t you afraid?’ said Una. 

‘Why? There were no Christians in the 
boat. At sunrise I made my prayer, and cast 
the gold—all—all that gold into the deep 
sea I A King’s ransom—no, the ransom of 
a People! When I had loosed hold of the last 


PUCK OF POOR’S HILL 


372 

bars, the Lord commanded the tide to return 
me to a haven at the mouth of a river, and 
thence I walked across a wilderness to Lewes, 
where I have brethren. They opened the 
door to me, and they say—I had not eaten 
for two days—they say that I fell across the 
threshold, crying, “I have sunk an army 
with horsemen in the sea!”’ 

‘ But you hadn’t,’ said Una. 'Oh, yes! I 
see ! You meant that King John might have 
•spent it on that ? ’ 

‘Even so,’ said Kadmiel. 

The firing broke out again close behind 
them. The pheasants poured over the top 
of a belt of tall firs. They could see young 
Mr. Meyer, in his new yellow gaiters, very 
busy and excited at the end of the line, and 
they could hear the thud of the falling birds. 

‘ But what did Elias of Bury do ? ’ Puck 
demanded. ‘ He had promised money to the 
King.’ 

Kadmiel smiled grimly. ‘ I sent him word 
from London that the Lord was on my side. 
When he heard that the Plague had broken 
out in Pevensey, and that a Jew had been 
thrust into the Castle to cure it, he understood 
my word was true. He and Adah hurried to 
Lewes and asked me for an accoimting. He 
still looked on the gold as his own. I told 
them where I had laid it, and I gave them 
full leave to pick it up. . . . Eh, weU! 

The curses of a fool and the dust of a journey 
are two things no wise man can escape. . . . 
But I pitied Elias! The King was wroth at 
him because he could not lend; the Barons 


THE TREASURE AND THE LAW 275 

were wroth at him because they heard that 
ne would have lent to the King; and Adah 
was wroth at him because she was an odious 
woman. They took ship from Lewes to Spain. 
That was wise ! ’ 

‘And you? Did you see the signing of the 
Law at Runnymede?’ said Puck, as Kadmiel 
laughed noiselessly. 

‘Nay. Who am I to meddle with things 
too high for me? I returned to Bury, and 
lent money on the autumn crops. Why not ? * 

There was a crackle overhead. A cock- 
pheasant that had sheered aside after being 
hit spattered down almost on top of them, 
driving up the dry leaves like a shell. Flora 
and Folly threw themselves at it; the children 
rushed forward, and when they had beaten 
them off and smoothed down the plumage 
Kadmiel had disappeared. 

‘Well,' said Puck, calmly, ‘what did you 
think of it? Weland gave the Sword. The 
Sword gave the Treasure, and the Treasure 
gave the Law. It’s as natural as an oak 
growing.’ 

‘I don’t understand. Didn’t he know it 
was Sir Richard’s old treasure?’ said Dan. 
‘ And why did Sir Richard and Brother Hugh 
leave it lying about? And—and ’ 

‘Never mind,’ said Una, politely. ‘He’ll 
let us come and go, and look, and know 
another time. Won’t you, Puck?’ 

‘Another time maybe,’ Puck answered. 
‘Brr! It’s cold—and late. I’ll race you to¬ 
wards home!’ 

They hurried down into the sheltered 



274 


PUCK OP POOR’S HILL 


valley. The sun had almost sunk behind 
Cherry Clack, the trodden ground by the 
cattle-gates was freezing at the edges, and 
the new-waked north wind blew the night 
on them from over the hills. They picked 
up their feet and flew across the browned 
pastures, and when they halted, panting 
in the steam of their own breath, the dead 
leaves whirled up behind them. There was 
Oak and Ash and Thom enough in that year- 
end shower to magic away a thousand mem¬ 
ories. 

So they trotted to the brook at the bottom 
of the lawn, wondering why Flora and Folly 
had missed the quarry-hole fox. 

Old Hobden was just finishing some hedge- 
work. They saw his white smock glimmer 
in the twilight where he faggoted the mb- 
bish. 

‘Winter, he’s come, I rackon, Mus’ Dan,’ 
he called. ‘ Hard times now till Heffle Cuckoo 
Fair. Yes, we’ll all be glad to see the Old 
Woman let the Cuckoo out o’ the basket 
for to start lawful Spring in England.’ They 
heard a crash, and a stamp and a splash 
of water as though a heavy old cow were 
crossing almost under their noses. 

Hobden ran forward angrily to the ford. 

‘Gleason’s bull again, playin’ Robin all 
over the Farm! Oh, look, Mus’ Dan—his 
great footmark as big as a trencher. No 
bounds to his impidence I He might count 
himself to be a man—or Somebody.’ 

A voice the other side of tiie brook 
boomed: 


THE TREASURE AND THE LAW 275 


I marvel who his cloak would turn 

When Puck had led him round 

Or where those walking fires would burne-* 

Then the children went in singing “Fare¬ 
well Rewards and Fairies ” at the tops of their 
voices. They had forgotten that they had 
not even said good-night to Puck. 



THE CHILDREN’S SONG 


Land of our Birth, we pledge to thee 
Our love and toil in the years to he, 

When we are grown and take our place^ 

As men and women with our race. 

Father in Heaven who lovest all, 

Oh help Thy children when they call; 
That they may build from age to age, ^ 
An undefiled heritage! 

Teach us to bear the yoke in youth, 

With steadfastness and careful truth; 
That, in our time, Thy Grace may give 
The Truth whereby the Nations live. 

Teach us to rule ourselves alway. 
Controlled and cleanly night and day; 
That we may bring, if need arise. 

No maimed or worthless sacrifice. 

Teach us to look in all our ends. 

On Thee for judge, and not our friends; 
That we, with Thee, may walk uncowed 
By fear or favour of the crowd. 

Teach us the Strength that cannot seek. 
By deed or thought, to hurt the weak; 
That, under Thee, we may possess 
Man’s strength to comfort man’s distress. 

276 


PUCK OF POOR’S HILL 


277 


Teach us Delight in simple things, 

And Mirth that has no bitter springs; 
Forgiveness free of evil done, 

And Love to all men ’neath the sun! 

Land of our Birth ^ our Faith our Pridey 
For whose dear sake our fathers died; 

O Motherlandy we pledge to thee. 

Heady hearty and hand through the years to be I 


. 28G 249 



The Country Life Press 

Garden City, N. Y. 




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